"With the night falling we are saying thank you."

My husband, soon to be ex-husband, has been moved to the skilled nursing wing of where we lived.  It's a permanent move and I am heartbroken for him.  He's in a wheelchair now, his existence bleak and he is in physical and mental agony.  His sister is going to visit in a couple of days and I hope they have a good few days together, although I know it will be full of anguish. Hopefully there will also be moments of happiness and humor.  (Please God.)

I'm planning a trip mid-January, because he wants to see me and I do want to see him.  I have no idea what the medical prognosis is or how long he has to live, and so I will take this chance to spend time with him.  It's going to be difficult, I know this.  I hear from friends and family that he is even more feeble and frail than he was just four months ago.  A precipitous  decline, which makes me wonder if it is solely the Parkinson's or something else.

He is not a 'glass half full' kind of guy and it is going to be hard to listen to him as he tells me how miserable he is.  I'm going to do a little homework before hand in order to just be there for him and not try and 'fix' him.  He doesn't want to live like this, and I can't say I blame him.  I mean, really, who would?  How in the world is he supposed to find meaning in something like this?  What in the world would motivate me to get out of bed each day knowing how lousy the day likely will be?

I'll be asking staff what kind of mental health intervention they are planning, if anything.

I came across this poem, which is the kind of attitude I ascribe to, but I don't think he does.  It helps me, anyway.

Thanks

Listen

with the night falling we are saying thank you

we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings

we are running out of the glass rooms

with our mouths full of food to look at the sky

and say thank you

we are standing by the water thanking it

standing by the windows looking out

in our directions

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging

after funerals we are saying thank you

after the news of the dead

whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you

over telephones we are saying thank you

in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators

remembering wars and the police at the door

and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you

in the banks we are saying thank you

in the faces of the officials and the rich

and of all who will never change

we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us

taking our feelings we are saying thank you

with the forests falling faster than the minutes

of our lives we are saying thank you

with the words going out like cells of a brain

with the cities growing over us

we are saying thank you faster and faster

with nobody listening we are saying thank you

thank you we are saying and waving

dark though it is

W.S. Merwin