Not much is harder than watching someone you love have the hardest week of their life. He is hurting so much. The medication was tearing him apart while he was on it, but now that he’s stopped taking it, it’s a whole different war. He is so fucking strong to detox this out of his system. So brave. And even still, I see him feeling like he’s losing the fight.
He looks at me and he makes the face of my husband, smiling as if to connect and soothe me. But I don’t feel connected. I don’t feel soothed.
My husband is in that body somewhere. Fighting for his life. Fighting for our life together and for our family. I will not distract him with the pain of missing him. I will not distract him with the things I can handle. But make no mistake, I am so utterly lost without our connection.
Today, on day seven, he said he was thinking of throwing in the towel. Because it’s so bad and because it’s still so bad, days after he thought he’d be on the upswing. And because there’s only so much a body can take and he has far surpassed that point.
And maybe it’s selfish of me, but damn, if he could just endure another couple days. They say the worst is over after seven to ten days. He could be on the other side of this! And then no more waiting weeks, months, years to be off it again.
But still. To have to look at him today and be completely helpless in providing any real relief–and probably making it even worse to flat out tell him “Don’t do it. Don’t give up.” It hurts. It hurts like dying inside. And I don’t even know if I’m right. There is no guarantee he’ll be over the hump by day ten. I can say I have enough faith for the both of us. But it doesn’t stop any of it from hurting so damn much.