Not The Queen of Patience

By Susan Tweit

As anyone who knows me knows very well, I am NOT the Queen of Patience. So on days like today, when Richard’s brain is just not working well, I have to remind myself that his company in my life is a gift.

Which I do … As I turn out the lights behind him, and wipe up the water he spilled all over the floor as he carefully and precisely filled up his water bottle to exactly the rim – and then tipped it as he carried it across the kitchen, never noticing the water trailing behind.

As I button the top button on his shirt, and the one three down that he skipped over in getting dressed, or retrieve the twenty-dollar bill that he unknowingly dropped on the floor in getting out the dollar I needed at the grocery store, or gently tug on his belt loop to get his attention when he turns the corner and walks confidently along ahead of me with steady strides – in the wrong direction.

As I sort through the midden on the table beside his favorite chair, where he keeps papers important to him – in no particular order – looking for the letter confirming his next appointment with his oncologist, or search for the jar of whole peppercorns – where did he put it after he filled the pepper grinder on the dining table that didn’t need filling and didn’t fill the one by that stove I asked him to fill? (On the silver chest, it turns out, not in the spice cabinet.)

Then he looks up from his laptop, and smiles at me as I come across the room, and I remember in a rush – no, I feel it in my bones, in my heart, that his company truly is a gift.

Then, in a discussion of where we are and what’s happening, he says,

“I suppose it’s the processing speed in my right brain. It’s like it’s choked down and only using a few of the channels, running in megabytes per second instead of tetrabytes. Or maybe slow firing in my neural networks and meta-networks.”

(His left brain – that would be language, logic, and anything linear, has not been affected by the brain cancer. It’s only his right brain, which handles anything relational, from space and time to knowledge of where your body is and how it’s doing, that is seriously impaired. And even with half a functional brain, he’s still, in the words of a friend, “f–ing smarter than all the rest of us.”)

After a moment, he continues,

“I don’t want to be in the way. I want to help, to be a source of support and joy to you.”

“You are, my love,” I respond, tears clouding my eyes, and I’m not just saying it this time. “Your smile, your spirit, your courage inspire me. You are a gift in my life.”

I may not be the Queen of Patience, but I know enough to value love, and to appreciate every moment I have of it.

Thanks, my love, for helping me remember.