pain and joy are one

please call me by my true names...

so I can see my pain and joy are one.

--Thich Nhat Hanh

Dave's A1 Hauling came for our bed.  For $162 and change, Dave loaded onto his truck a mattress both saggy and soggy, one that I could never imagine sleeping on, alone.  Or otherwise.

Joy for it's going; we had been wanting to get rid of it for a couple of years.

Pain for the reason, now.

Food is delivered by friends to Hospice almost every night.  So much, I'm considering moving our mini-fridge into Rich's room so that we don't consume all of the space in the communal kitchen. It's an international feast, of Norwegian fish balls, homemade pizza, Costa Rican rice and beans, tempeh stew.  And lots of ice cream, sorbet, gelato.

Joy for the care with which it is made and seeing the faces who deliver it.

Pain for watching ever-hungry Rich awkwardly fork the meals mostly into his mouth, always some dropping onto his shirt and lap, eating not at a table -- never again -- but half propped upright in his Gerry Chair.  

Friends come one afternoon and make music on baroque recorders.  Others, a few days later, come with voice and harp and dulcimer for a donations-requested performance, all proceeds going to Hospice's music program, and when Rich hears how can I keep from singing...

He cries.  For the first time, almost ever.  For joy in the beauty that he tastes.  For pain in its vanishing.

Today I took a "day off" to focus on sleep, chores, errands, yoga, and a leisurely cafe au lait.  We spoke on the phone, but I did not visit.  Rich says I need the rest, and I know if  I did not take these 24 hours, my heart would be taken over by a frustrated Rich taken over by a tumor and all the reasons I loved him would be forgotten.  

Love him, not loved.

Joy for the past -- and now.

Pain for the past -- and now.

These are our true names.

Candace