Shortly after writing that post about my husband’s cooking, I went to pick up some printing, and ran into an old friend I haven’t seen in quite awhile. Turns out she’s trying to put together the pieces of her life after a hellish year. There can be nothing fun about being forced to move your fifty year old husband into a nursing home because of his rapid decline due to MS. And that was only after she’d struggled to care for him at home while trying to keep herself sane. After too many days of having to run home from work to help him off the floor where he had fallen, she had no other choice.
She describes herself as a married widow. Not only can her husband no longer cook her the kind of meals I’ve been treated to, he can’t even keep her company in her lonely house. He can’t go for walks with her, can’t travel, can’t curl up on the couch with his arm wrapped around her, can’t go to movies, and can’t please her the way he used to (and this is someone who used to brag about her sex life).
This friend is one of the most vivacious, fun-loving people I know. There is something incredibly unfair about the way her life turned out. Too unfair for words.