"Exhaustion" by Michael J Whelan

SDianeL · September 8

I follow Michael on X (Twitter). His is a stage 4 cancer survivor & his wife Rebecca has Parkinson's & now Parkinson's Dementia. He has such a way with words. He expresses what many of us feel. He posted this today:

"A Letter to Exhaustion.by Michael Whelan Chapter 21. An except from my memoir.

Dear Exhaustion, You didn’t arrive like a storm. You slipped in quietly, like twilight bleeding into day, until one morning I woke and realized you had taken up residence inside me. You unpacked your bags in my bones, curled yourself into the hollows beneath my eyes, and now you sleep where I sleep, wake where I wake. You’ve stopped being a visitor. You’ve become the weather. I don’t recognize the man in the mirror anymore. Once, he stood taller, his shoulders unbowed, his eyes carrying the kind of light that believed in endless tomorrows. He used to shave carefully, dress sharply, laugh easily. Now, his reflection is someone else’s entirely a man softened, sagging beneath invisible weight, his skin etched with exhaustion’s fingerprints, his eyes shadowed by things he’s seen and cannot unsee. The irony is, I never knew I had stage four head and neck cancer. And Rebecca in 2018, she could have never imagined that the faint weakness in her legs was the first whisper of Parkinson’s, a thief arriving quietly to steal her balance, her voice, her grace. Back then, we still believed in our shared invincibility, as if love and history could protect us from everything that stalks the body. We didn’t know that the clock had already started ticking. Now, our little house has transformed into something else entirely. The pill bottles line the counter like weary soldiers. The catheter machine hums through the night like a soft lament. Plastic tubing snakes quietly beneath furniture legs, and the bed room once filled with music, conversation, and laughter has become a makeshift medical ward. Rebecca drifts through these rooms like a ballerina caught in slow motion, rehearsing steps her body no longer remembers. Sometimes, when I guide her hands around my neck so she can stand I see the faint flicker of who she used to be her elegance, her power, her quiet dignity before this effing disease began chiseling her away piece by fragile piece. And each time she stumbles, a little more of me goes with her. And you, Exhaustion, you stand in the doorway, smirking, whispering, “How much longer can you do this?” There are mornings when I wake already tired, before the day has even begun. My body aches in ways it didn’t used to, my chest feels heavier than it should, and my reflection carries a sadness I cannot hide. Cancer took its pound of flesh. Caregiving has taken more. But here’s the thing, Exhaustion: you haven’t won. You’ve stripped me bare, yes. You’ve carved me into someone unrecognizable, hollowed out the man who once ran television networks and built empires on adrenaline and deadlines. But you cannot touch the part of me that refuses to surrender. Because love lives here. It lives in the quiet rituals buttoning the blouse she can’t manage, explaining the same thing five times without letting my voice break, reminding her how to use the bathroom or sit on the sofa, holding her hand when the night terrors come, whispering, “It’s okay, I’m here,” even when my own voice trembles with intense fear. You can empty my body, but you cannot touch my devotion. You can carve me down to something smaller, but you cannot take the fire that wakes me every morning when I tell myself, “She needs you. Now get up.” So yes, you’ve changed me. You’ve reshaped my face, my body, my soul. You’ve stolen the man I once was. But you will never take the man who loves her and fights for everyone of our brothers and sisters who are going through the same damn fight. And when our story is told, let it read like this: I bent. I broke. I endured. Because my love for Rebecca and life will always outlast you. Yours Truly, Michael."

David1941 · September 9

Wow! Truly wonderful - describes the man I hope I very often am. Not always, but he inspires me to be/become the husband I once promised 61 years ago to become & still try daily to be. Thank you Michael!!!!!