Missing the fight

I haven't blogged for a while because I was letting my reaction to some recent news sink in, feeling a bit confused and waiting to feel good about it.  Last week saw some long awaited news and steps forward in our civil case.  That woman's insurers have finally accepted primary liability and are making an interim payment that will enable us to buy a bigger home.

So why do I feel so deflated?

I know that some reading this will be wondering what my problem is and rightly so.  I get it; we are unbelievably lucky to be able to claim compensation and there are many, many people in our position who don't have that opportunity.

The problem is the wood and the fact that I can now see it for the trees.  The last 18 months have been all about the fight; Jake's fight to live, the fight to get him the right treatment and funding, the fight to get justice, the fight to secure our financial future and, frankly, the fight to stay sane.

Today Jake is back at home, he has a phenomenal rehab package in place through the NHS, we have found a property that can accommodate our changed needs, we have a justice of sorts and I know we have a fabulous legal team who will make sure we are OK in the future.  I don't have to fight anymore.

There is no doubt that this is a good thing and I am certainly battle weary and in need of a rest, but I miss the fight.  The fight is absorbing, a distraction.  Deep in the fury and adrenaline of battle you don't have to face the reality of right now and right now I am scared.

I am scared because I am having to face the future and even though I have known it would be tough, that knowledge was an abstract, amorphous thing that I was vaguely aware of.  Now I am no longer in the fight reality has been brought into sharp relief.

This breaks my heart, because if it is hard for me, I cannot imagine what it is like for my Jake.

Last night I woke at around midnight to find Jake trying to get comfortable in soaking wet bedding having had a horrendous night sweat.  With fresh sheets on the bed and a reassured Jake we both went back to sleep.  An hour later Jake got up to go to the loo which wakes me as I need to put the light on for him as he is sight impaired and so unsteady on his feet.  A few seconds later I realised that Jake was sleep walking again and going to the toilet in the hallway, waking up and realising as he was doing it.  Can you imagine how mortified he was?  Now imagine feeling like that and not being able to express it.  Imagine that you are so dyspraxic that you are unable to help clean it up and will have to sit on the edge of the bed watching whilst your wife cleans up after you have already watched her get up in the night to change the bedding.  Imagine your frontal lobe damage means you can't manage or control your feelings of shame and upset.  Now imagine you don't really understand why you are no longer a capable, reliable husband and find yourself helpless, standing in your own urine unable to do anything about it.  My imagination certainly didn't let me go back to sleep.

This makes me want to weep.  I am SO angry that this has happened to him, to us.  I want to sweep him up and transport him away from this reality.  I want to take all of his pain and confusion away and would gladly swap places with him in a heartbeat.

So you see, I miss the fight, it was keeping my heart whole.