I mourn for my wife, even though she’s alive and I’m with her every day. The use of her legs was stolen from her, bit by bit, but her spirit remained strong and playful. PLS is like that. It sneaks in each night and steals another piece of a person’s body. You hardly notice the loss, until you do. Her arms failed next, growing weaker, and the ability to speak became a matter of will, sometimes not worth the effort. As her strength was lost, the playful spirit dimmed along with it. It’s still there, trapped. I see it in her eyes when I do something silly. I think that may be the agony of it for her. She wants to play. She can’t.
As a ‘care giver’, I’ve been advised that I need to take time off and do something fun, that it’s needed for the health of my mind, body, and soul. I do, but it’s not the same. My body benefits, and my mind enjoys the distraction. My soul is only partially mine, and it mourns for the woman who holds its other half.
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