Holy Week

A year ago, this was the week before Gil died.  Last week was our 25th wedding anniversary.  Oddly intense little mileage markers, they call out for some ritualistic processing (recovering Catholic that I am).   I went back to Samba on our anniversary, the Brazilian ode to meat restaurant that we went to last year, and I'm planning the ashes/tree planting we'll be doing with Chris and Miya and (ta da!) Isaac et al in a month.
And then there's   now.
Last year this was three days before he died.  I think it was finally starting to sink in that maybe he wasn't going to be able to snatch disaster from the maw of death as he'd done  soo many times before.  Hard to believe.  I think this was the day that I climbed into the hospital bed and spooned with him.  For some reason he needed to be on his side, it was such an invitation to snuggle!  I think I remember him responding, maybe even saying "good".  Mostly I was on the cot they'd made up for me right next to his bed, I could reach out and touch him.
I think this was the day when we could no longer get Gil to swallow his pills. These were ones which couldn't be given by IV but which could have fairly immediate negative impact on how he felt.     I suggested "pilling the cat",  mixing the ground pills in applesauce and squirting it into his cheek.  It worked in the morning and then in the evening he spit it into my face.  
I think he was angry because he felt belittled, and bossed.   I hadn't explained to him why these meds were necessary, I hadn't asked him to let us do it,  I didn't treat him as though he were still there.  Though he seemed mostly unconscious I think he could still hear us.
And I was angry. I was tired of being responsible for everything. Angry that he was fading these last years and I felt chose  TV and computer games, golf and billiards over me.  But mostly I was angry that I was in this position where looking out for his well being left me feeling like a bossy bully.
I wish I'd had the compassion to think of a more respectful way to help him, and
I was doing the best I knew to do; I feel no guilt.
There was a turning point when the magical thinking part of me started to realize,  he was too far gone even for a miracle like  in February, with the gurgling and finally getting the morphine as a steady drip loosing the pain and consciousness.  Those last two days I was in the numb space where it started to dawn on me, something momentous was about to happen and dramatically alter the rest of my life.  Gil was disappearing and I couldn't follow him.    How extremely odd.