What right have I got to cry?

It started around 2008. By 2009, my husband was noticeably unwell. Dementia set in, and the next few years rolled by. They were hair-raising.

I learned a lot. For instance, after reading a few books and finding out what I was possibly in for; when he had his first stroke, he recovered well. A few months later, I noticed he was coughing a lot after eating or drinking. Then the second stroke came, and he had to be put on thickener for all fluids. I had to learn how to do that. We managed. It was all right.

Then the day came when he broke his hip. We were six and a half years into our abandonment by then, and it was only then that we finally got the help I'd been asking for, for all those years.

Two years later, and, after the care he received, he was finally off the thickener; eating and drinking properly again. I wondered how they did that, as it was spectacular. Sadly, in the last few months, he's had to be put back on this stuff. A few days ago when I visited him, I could see how awful his health had become.

True to form, he fell the day after I was with him, and he went into hospital. After he broke his hip two years ago, they couldn't keep him in bed. He was out of it the very next morning, on his own. Because of the dementia, he didn't even know he'd had an operation! This time, though, things ain't so good. It's already been vocalised that he might not make it through.

That was my cheery good morning message. I've been chasing up events ever since. The hospital staff have got him on observation. They are not committing to whether he will go back to his care home, or not.

Well, I guess you can't, can you.

They say grief has to happen. I find that impulsive, quite honestly. I mean, we do what we have to do, don't we, but I'm sitting here thinking: what right have I got to cry? My husband can't eat or drink properly. I don't know if he ever has any thought processes at all, now, as he's so vacant when I see him. Dementia is an evil bloody devil, let me tell you. Plus, this last fall he had might take his life, or it might not.

I'm not in that position. I can eat and drink reasonably what I like. My thought processes may not be the same as everyone else's, but they are mine, and I am sane. I can sit here and watch what I enjoy, and follow it properly. Hubby can't. I can pick up a book and read it with thorough understanding and enjoyment. Hubby can't.

I can go for a ride in my buggy. Hubby can't even walk. I can go shopping and choose what I want to eat; drink; wear, etc. Hubby can't do those things. He's been incapable of it for many years.

So what right have I got to cry? Of course I'll bloody miss him. We were married in 1991. I met him in 1989. I've known and loved him for years. Yeah, we got on each other's nerves like all married couples do. But sit here crying and feeling sorry for myself? Is that what's really expected of me?

Why? I'm still alive. Life is good and I have memories no one can ever take from me.