How Often Does It Happen

that we make a point to speak with the people most important in our lives about our wishes for the future? Nestled in bed, safe behind the cloak of darkness you reveal your secret worries to the person you love the most. Is it the future? Is it a fear of not being able to pay the bills? Is it a desire to be something you are not? Is it a longing to have more time to connect with the family you adore?

I hear many people pledge to their loved ones a commitment to stay home, a promise that no matter what, they will never be placed in a long-term care facility (previously known as a "nursing home" -- although that sounds funny to me as a breastfeeding educator). How can we ask that of the people we love? How can we even begin to know what may still lay ahead of us?

I ask these questions at this time as we are facing something monumental in our home. The doctors at the hospital are worried about the combination of Henry's lung cancer (and it seems to be advancing faster than we thought) and his Alzheimer's disease. They do not feel it is safe or wise for us to bring him home once his current bout of pneumonia passes.

To that end, Christena and I met with the hospital administrators about what was required from us, as the family, to begin the process of having him transferred to a long-term care facility. We also wondered about the costs, the locations of such places, and whether or not we would be allowed to bring him home from time to time over the holidays or something. The two women we met with (Sylvie and Brenda) were lovely. They understood how difficult it was to have to talk about these concerns and were nothing short of patient with both of us.

We have left it now in their capable hands. We know, and are slowly trying to come to terms with the idea that Henry is not ever going to live with us again. I am certain this is not what he wants. Christena feels desperately sad that she can no longer handle his care on her own. It is unbelievably sad to see how much he has changed. He no longer knows where he is living let alone who the people are in the house he lives in. Except Douglas. He always seems to know his son. That will change too, I am sure. It breaks our hearts to watch him go from confused, to angry and then cognitively completely unavailable in rapid succession. It must break his heart to that he has no control over this. Somewhere, in a recesses of his brain, I wonder if any part of him has an inkling as to what is happening to his body and his mind. It's impossible to know. I truly hope that he has no idea.

If anyone -- family or otherwise -- has any questions or would like more information about Henry's health, please email me or leave a comment here for me to advise me to get back to you.

Take care of yourselves!