A Gentle Death: Part 4 - Rum and Therapy
By Barbara O'Neil Ross
“Barbara, you don't have control over the timing of John's death.”
These are the wise words of a therapist I'd contacted when I knew I was going to need help dealing with my sadness, anger and stress during John's illness. Part of the frustration and the pleasure of being a caregiver is trying to anticipate the patient's every need and the feeling that if you just do everything right, this person you love will be more comfortable and will live longer. It is exhausting.
“Once a month I want you to treat yourself to a little holiday from nursing. Spend one night away from home and do something fun.”
Within days I am behind the wheel of my VW Golf heading for the Arabian Horse Inn in Sudbury, a charming spot with giant old oak and ash trees dotting a vast hillside. I wander over to the duck pond and stand by the fence watching two gray Arabian horses flicking flies off each other's haunches.
Back in the spacious bathroom, I spill an overdose of bubble bath into a huge square maroon tub and luxuriate in the suds and froth as bubbles flow over the tub rim.
Later, lying on my back on the grassy slope, looking up at the shifting cloud patterns, I listen to the purr of Tiffany, the farm mouser, who parks her chubby white and black body on my stomach. Her desire for affection is insatiable. Every exposed square inch of my dark knit clothes is covered with white hairs. I feel at peace.
The next little vacation is at a B & B in Cambridge. An essay for an upcoming reunion, “My Journey Since College”, is overdue. After mint tea and chocolate cookies, I tackle the task. Propped up against pillows in my lacy canopied bed, I try to stitch together the varied threads of my life. It takes most of the day and evening but is unexpectedly therapeutic. I can see how my current situation fits into the total fabric of my life.
A month later I crumple into another B &B . After a nap, I explore the neighborhood, pretending to be a tourist, discovering amusing little stores, buying a few cards. I watch TV and read, uninterrupted. Next morning I feast on an enormous artery-clogging breakfast - an omelet, sausages, muffins. Very satisfying, but I know I'm not completely refreshed when I stop in at an unfamiliar liquor store on the way home.
“Do you happen to have any Ben Gay Rum?” I inquire.
He grins. “Lady, do you mean Mount Gay Rum?” I burst into laughter.
