It's the Thanksgiving holiday weekend. I'm alone even though I reside in a shared bedroom with a 78-year old woman. I'm alone in this skilled nursing facility housing 100+ souls. I'm reconciled to my aloneness. My heart doesn't hurt. At least not today. I hold hope in my heart that my husband will visit. He begged off taking me to church this morning citing snow yet the roads are clear. But I hold hope nonetheless.
I have God. I know I do. He never leaves me and carries me every day, every minute. Especially when I'm weak and in despair.
Fed up. Sick of hearing, "I'm sorry." Apologies don't erase the pain you inflict on me. You pull my pubic hair. Your nitrile gloves pull the hair from my head. Not once in a while but day in and day out. You turn me in a manner that suits you rather than in a manner that doesn't stress my body. Why won't you use the pad and sheet to turn me as one unit? Instead, you allow my body to twist as you hold me one-handed. How good you are at your job. What part of "my muscles are dying" don't you understand?
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