On not lingering

The heat pump started tripping the circuit breaker last week. The third time, I decided it wasn't a fluke and left the breaker off, fearing a fire otherwise. I had the flu this week, so didn't get someone in to look at it until today. I fetched the 6-foot wooden ladder for the tech, and he climbed up it in our living room to start troubleshooting the heater itself, which is mounted near the ceiling. He traipsed outside multiple times to check the wiring on the outdoor unit. He went down and fiddled with the circuit box. Finally, we were talking about how they'd pulled the wiring for the heater, and he realized there must be an outside junction box: then it was clear why the circuit breaker kept tripping; those wires were pretty crispy. He called in the problem and departed. The electrician arrived about an hour later. I went out and showed him the box, and he rewired that section, explained the cause to me and the way he'd ensured it's safe now, and then he checked the circuit box as well.

As these guys wandered through the first floor, carrying tools and paperwork, talking on cellphones, I kept flashing on Sandy's hospital bed in the middle of the living room. It was challenging enough to care for her there while the delivery person set up her bed and oxygen. I can't even imagine how stressful it would have been for her to have these service people clanking and stomping and theorizing all over the place.

On May 18, 2011, we visited Mesa Verde, and marveled
together at the amazing homes of people long since gone.
Sandy was learning and thinking and having adventures
until a few weeks before her death. That's definitely
something to be grateful for.

Maybe it's selfish of me, but I'm glad she didn't linger for months in a hospital bed in the living room. I wanted more time with her, but the her I wanted more time with was fading fast. I'd always love and care for Sandy, in any physical or mental condition, but it's hard to imagine that it would have been any kind of life for her unless she'd had the chance to recover some of her strength.

It was hard on both of us to have everything change so quickly. She, especially, didn't have a chance to keep up, to reset her expectations for what she'd be able to accomplish. But even as my mind still fights reality, I've come to recognize that a fast demise is a gift, in many ways. Better to live as well as possible, as long as possible, and then go quickly. That's what I hope to do, as well.