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Monday, November 8, 2010

Finite. All is finite.

Well that was a shocker, no denying it.

The service providers came around today to do an assessment for Arthur's home care. As he is weaker than when he went into hospital, he needs two people to do his personal services so he has to have his hours of care cut in half. He can only have half an hour in the morning and evening with two people to change his pads, wash and make him comfortable. There is no funding for anything more. We either buy in services, which is impossible because I can't work, and we spent a lot of money on stuff for Arthur (his electric wheelchair and other equipment cost thousands.) or I do it all. Arthur was a working class man in his day, and is not a wealthy. It would not take long for our savings to be eaten up with the cost of services these days.

Otherwise I provide most of the services myself, and that is what I will do because we won't have him go into a nursing home, not while I still breathe.

The shock came when Arthur told the social worker he will only live another year. He says he knows what is happening with his body and that is what he knows. I am distraught to hear this in such a concrete way,

I remember him telling me one day, "All good things must come to an end." I was frightened and told him that that day was far off. It was then. He was just starting to lose some of his mobility and independence. I was right, it was far off. The problem is it is not far off any longer. It is now.

I am in shock. I am in grief. I am stunned.

I expected to get him back much as he was before he went into hospital, but I was naively wrong.

I also thought that for the $3,700 every month these agencies get from the government for Arthur's needs, they could come up with more than some equipment and one hour a day for two people to come and change his pad, give him a sponge wash and two showers a week, and a podiatrist once every 8 weeks. If Arthur gets bedsores or anything and he needs nursing, he may get less personal care than that. They don't make any profit. Apparently after administration, reporting (paying all the captains and officers) there is nothing left to pay for many deckhands to swab the decks and hoist the sails, so the ship doesn't sail very far.

I doubt I will be able to work and I really do not know if I can keep studying for my qualifications, but the worst is the complete unmitigated sense of shock and horror at finally voicing my fear, knowing life is finite, that the separation of the five months, when Arthur was always coming home, will one day be final.

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