I think about his dying alot. The thought of will he be alive in the morning often plays through my mind. It’s not morbidity. I am just being realistic. And open to the fact that he could go, any day. Will you be there in the morning? I ask him when he tucks me into bed. Yes, if I have anything to do with it, he says, adding, I don’t want to go yet, I’m having too nice a time. I’m glad. He is happy. I can see that. Yes, there are the usual gripes and temper tantrums, but they are generally over small things and more often than not about being irritating with himself because he can’t do something or other. I am glad that I’ve played a part in his contentment. It makes a life worthwhile, that.
