Change

It is a new kind of sadness, grieving, despair.
Fear of the future and my ability to support him are gone.
Frustrations at his continued inabilities are left behind.
Anger of how his needs are changing my life do not exist.

At Lieberman Center his needs are being met
Although never as well as I was able to meet them.
I was always there for him when he needed me.
Now he waits, in a wet diaper, for the aide to arrive

I go to visit, to hold his hand, to read aloud
At meals I help him cut his food or manage his fork
I rub his neck and his swollen ankles,
And then an hour or two later, I go home.

He continues to live in the moment there
Seems to be enough, and he is content again.
He has never asked why or when or what or where.
The narrow world that is now his life, his home

The minutes, to me, seem to go so slowly
But his days pass easily and without variation.
The place through my eyes is painful to witness
He doesn't seem to notice the difference.

And then the fall and the eight staples in his head.
And the pain in his back and neck from the fall.
And the Grand Mal Seizure with its hospital stay.
But he doesn't complain, or cry, or need.

And the raised rails on his lowered bed,
And the increased difficulty moving around
And the need for the wheel chair to get around
But he doesn't resent, or anger, or demand.

So, it is a new kind of sadness, grieving, despair.
Fear of the future and my ability to support him are gone.
Frustrations at his continued inabilities are left behind.
Anger of how his needs are changing my life do not exist.

Now, with most of my previous emotions put to rest;
Fear, frustration, anger, resentment,
My sadness and grief and despair
Can be more purely felt and therefore more strongly.

All I can do now is wait, patiently wait.
Wait for the end of life to arrive.
His blessed end,
or mine.