Managing his death. Sounds morbid doesn’t it.

As I helplessly looked at the discoloration and open wounds on his foot last night, I had a brutal realization. I’m no longer managing his medicine, appointments, meals or hygiene. Since the onset of this foot infection, I’ve started actively managing his death.

I suppose this is something done since the day each of us are born. Decisions are made for us and by us, to keep ourselves healthy and delay our death.

But now we’re down to the final pages of Jim’s life. The chapters for his accomplishments are over, loose ends for redemption and closure must be permanently left open, and now we begin the Ailment Play-Off Finals. What co-morbidity will win the honour of hastening his final breath.

Geez, melodramatic much?

Laugh at me if you will, but it’s true.

Every decision I make about his health, directly affects his death and his quality of life between now and then. Every action is under a microscope.

Should we have risked surgery and gambled on fast-tracking his dementia and losing what little is left of his personality and mobility?

Did I put enough Briodine solution on his toes?

Did he keep his foot up enough today?

Should I try this? That?

If I don’t see him try to stand up, will I get there in time to catch him when he falls?

The bones in his hands crack when they grip mine as he walks, are they fracturing?

Do I get him up enough during the day or should I let him rest more?

Should I force feed him when he says he’s had enough?

Every question is a valid concern with direct results that impact what’s left of his life.

That a lot of pressure to put on one person.

Especially one who is often up all night listening to him cry out at vivid dreams or out of bed to dress him at 3am and play along with his delusions in a vain attempt to keep him calm.