David's illness had gotten so bad that I had to buy my own gifts for under the tree. This Christmas there would be a miracle
David has Huntington’s disease, a progressive, degenerative neurological disorder. For 10 years I had taken care of him in the house where we had raised our two boys, but his illness progressed to the point where he couldn’t stand or walk anymore. He couldn’t feed or bathe himself. It had all become too much for me. We found a good nursing home where I could visit him every day, but I still couldn’t get used to seeing my husband, barely 50, surrounded by residents decades older.
Huntington’s was changing who he was, turning him into someone I didn’t know. Increasingly I had to imagine who he had been: laid-back, outgoing, positive, not the stranger I saw before me. Now there were mood swings. Angry outbursts. I couldn’t blame him for feeling frustrated at being trapped in a failing body, at having to struggle to put together two- or three-word sentences. But I couldn’t really accept it either.
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