Don't ever let your husband break his foot on top of having dementia. Ever since Dean's fracture last year and then his cracked ribs this year, he has asked me to wait on him like he was still injured. He constantly expects me to be at his beck and call, mostly delivering food for him non-stop from the time he gets up till he goes to bed at night. Many times I just refuse and tell him to get it himself. Which often leads to a stream of profanity. I don't mind. I just go on with what I'm doing and pretend the volcano didn't blow. A minute later, he's back to his sunshiny self.
I don't know why I'm pouring all this out tonight. It's been my life for over ten years now, and I know there are lots of women out there who have experienced much worse.
I'm just so anxious to see Dean when we get to heaven. Both of us, in our glorified bodies and minds, will think all of this was like having a hiccup, compared to the joys that await us for an eternity. Maranatha. Come, Lord Jesus.
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