Sometimes I have to go back and visit the last few months before Steven died. To not do this feels like I'll lose him.
Over time we switched roles. I became stronger as he became weaker with the cancer. Instead of him holding me with strong arms, I held him. I did his chores around the house and asked for advice when stumped. I worried about life then and in the future. I planned a funeral behind his back, behind everyone's back.
I remember the sounds from that time with Steven. The loud beep of the oxygen machine when we turned it off, the ring tone on my phone when he would call for help and later the bell he'd ring when the phone became too hard. The sound of the motorized chair as it moved him thru the house. And the cough. I hear that cough now and I know that person is sick with lung cancer.
I try to hear his voice, raspy from the bronchoscopy, and that is when the tears begin. Just the voice before I even get to the words he may have said. Everyone has limits.