He is nothing but skin and bones, mixed with an unhealthy dose of anger. His frustration and depression is intensified by his chronic illness.
My poor husband is plagued, and while I may be immune to his disease, I’m not immune to his suffering.
We try to keep a positive outlook. Tell the children that their father is sick, but is working on finding the right medicine. I don’t speak of my fear that they might inherit his illness too. If we were to have another baby, it would mean another chance of passing it on.
He doesn’t want anyone else to suffer, but despite his best efforts, we suffer too.
His exhaustion is palpable and at times frustrating. I still struggle to accept him falling asleep while I’m talking. His bones stick out and his body is weak.
Despite it all he still pushes himself to work, in any way he can. Right now his biggest job is preparing meals for his family.
Even that is at times too hard for him.
I bounce between deep fear and resentment, and endless compassion and hope. Perhaps, someday, he will find a solution for his chronic illness and extended bouts of depression.
Perhaps someday he will once again bring so much more to the table than his sad weary bones.