As he was getting up off the driveway where he fell when the bees attacked him, he said, "This just cost me two weeks of my life."
He was not wrong. (See the blog of July 1. )We are going into the second week and he has been too sore and worn out to do anything more than water his garden and feed Sally, who we consider to be his dog.
His shoulder may be seriously injured. He won’t get it x-rayed voluntarily, and I haven’t wanted to force a trip to the ER since it has been getting some better day by day. However, a new thing: yesterday he drove with his left arm and his hand started tingling, then went numb. I’m concerned about nerve damage, so now it is time to insist on seeing a doctor.
The worst part though is now he is beginning to lose help that he will ever be better. Without hope his life will seem like an endless stream of doctor appointments and won’t seem like living. He is sensing the passing of time, and he spoke aloud yesterday of giving up:
"If this is the way things are going to be I don’t want to go on. Tony had the right idea."
I wish he wouldn’t say that. Tony is my son who believed he was terminally ill, and ended his life with a shotgun. I don’t need to be reminded; neither do I need to worry about losing another one to suicide. When he talks like that I retreat deep inside myself and start repeating "The Lord’s Prayer." Only I rarely get through it even once before I feel better and reassured —for a time.