I may have underestimated how hard this would be.

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I thought it would take just two months for me to find some kind of balance and for Rhia to settle into her new life at the group home.

What is two months of respite compared to 29 years of caregiving?

Nothing.

Two months barely adds up to one breath of quiet in a lifetime of long nights and chronic stress. I still twitch at sounds in the night as if I need to jump out of bed and help her. I still don’t know what to eat for dinner or even when to eat it because my natural body clock has been dominated by Rhia’s needs. And Rhia is being forced to adapt to a new schedule at her new home, one that encompasses a group of women rather than just her own wishes.

Neither of us are adapting quickly.

There are days I feel the entire weight of all the grief I rarely allowed myself to feel in 29 years crush against my lungs. I hold one of her Princess cups, trying to decide what I should hold on to and what I need give away and I weep as if she’s vanished. She’s hasn’t vanished. She moved twenty minutes away. I use to cry for her expected death but today I’m crying because she’s moved out into the world to live her own life separate from mine. It’s a wonderful, beautiful thing! I am celebrating as I wipe away tears.

I understand this is how it feels to become an “empty nester” for the first time. Now I understand it will take more than two months to recover from this transition. This change is probably the most ordinary life event Rhia and I have ever experienced.

How long will it take for me to stop feeling like a kite with a broken string?

A friend visited Rhia today and she messaged me to let me know that Rhia was playing a keyboard and singing at the top of her lungs. I am so glad to hear that, because if Rhia is still singing then I know she’s okay. She may still fight against the changes in her life but she is beginning to adapt and find happiness again.

I’ll find it again, too.

But not in two months.

Maybe in six months?