As I got into bed last night Blokey turned to me and asked me what the longest was anyone had survived ESRD through dialysis alone. Years and years and years! I gushed, because I’d read that somewhere on ihd dot com. Then the conversation went something like this:
Him: I’m going to die.
Me: We’re all going to die.
Him: But I probably won’t live to see … *pause* [I have no idea what he was going to say, or what he was thinking] … I’ve been paying into my private pension since I was eighteen [he’s mid-thirties now]; I won’t even get to enjoy that.
Me: Of course you will! You take care of yourself. Besides, medical research could change things so much in just a short space of time!
Me: I could get hit by a bus tomorrow.
Him: But you won’t.
Me: But I might. Or, a tsunami could come crashing through and we’ll all drown.
Him: I don’t think that will happen.
Me: Oh, okay.
Him: I’m going to die … *pause* … I’m going to sleep now.
See, I’m rubbish. My husband suddenly decided to worry about dying and I couldn’t come up with anything to console him.
Perhaps it’s because I’ve been constantly worried about him dying since he was first in hospital. I’m resigned to my fate, but I don’t want him to be resigned to his. It isn’t even as though we haven’t talked about his (and my) death before, so I’m struggling to understand where the topic came from so unannounced at such a late hour. Perhaps something happened to someone at dialysis. I don’t want to pry.
But I wish I knew what to say to him when he brings it up again.
We went to the pub for lunch today and he enjoyed half a pint of beer (*ssshhh*). That perked him up a bit!