Race

My heart aches. How much longer will I live in limbo? The rest of world is moving on; they are making plans for the future. I’m stuck. I yearn to look forward to something other than lab results. Illness, long-term illness is a sneaky thief that robs slowly and gradually until only a shell remains. The shell is hard, easily cracking and disintegrating right before your eyes. My husband, a determined marathoner, can barely walk 400 yards. Yet, he makes a daily trek into the field to examine the beehives. He delights in the all the dancing and buzzing surrounding him. The bees are an animated reminder of life, his touchstone. He tries to mask his exhaustion as he shuffles back to our house and collapses into a reclining chair with a view of field for the remainder of the afternoon. Every day he hits the wall upon his return. Visiting the bees is his finish line. I beg him to pace himself and take a day off. He refuses. This is his race to win not mine.

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