J: "How's your dad?" It's a question that I'm asked almost everyday since Sweet T has died. The answer is, he's ok. He doesn't ask about his wife or wonder where she is. He doesn't seem upset by the giant empty that is their room now that Sweet T and all of her paraphernalia are gone. No more wheelchair, no more potty chair, no more hospital bed, no more Sweet T. When I walk in the room it's like a gut punch each and every time.
But he doesn't seem to notice. Which I guess is the silver lining of this damned disease. It is so hard for me to see him all alone in their big room. But it would be even harder if he was grieving, pouring over photo albums and lamenting the old days and times gone by. I guess it speaks to the power of the disease that it can erase 56 years of memories. Or maybe it's Sweet T at work, taking care of her man from up above and keeping him at peace until they can be together again.
It's a silver lining in the middle of a cold winter. We'll take it.