I am going back to Westport tonight. I am sad to be leaving Jack. I am also worn out and I can’t wait to get home.

It is hard to let go. But the reality is, I can no longer care for Jack. He had two major strokes a week apart and needs lots of skilled care. It now takes a village to do what I used to do by myself.

I would be lying if I said this was the outcome I wanted. But I know in my heart it’s the right one. He is in an amazing place, with an entire team of people devoted to his care. I could not have asked for anything better.

There are no words to adequately describe how I feel right now. I can say that I am rock-bottom exhausted at a level I’ve never known. But that’s not quite true either. I’ve been exhausted for months, but had to push through it. I couldn’t not push through it. Jack depended on me and I had to be there.

As I’ve watched this fleet of people, though, doing as a team what I used to do alone, I’ve seen how much I was actually doing, the tremendous volume of non stop labor. It was a labor of love, truly, but it was still labor. I was doing the work of a team.

And now that work is done. For the first time in two and a half years, I will not have a life that’s entirely devoted to Jack. My life as a ‘me’ is unrolling before me like a long, green rug. I have put my toes on the edge. It is a good first step.

I will have all the me time I need now. I am scared to embrace it. I feel guilty for craving it. I am excited to begin it, to have a life. I have both dreaded and longed for this day.

But I need my life again. I need to rebuild my health, which has taken a hit. I need to reconnect with ME. I need to rest my body and allow it to heal. I had to lift and turn Jack in the hospital several times when they were understaffed, and I am hurting. A lot.

In my darker moments, my new life feels like a long string of losses. I’ve lost Jack; I am losing his income to the facility; I have lost my role as caregiver. I have lost my main sources of transportation. The space left behind is massive. I feel the space and fear it will never be filled. I don’t know yet how I will fill it.

But then I look ahead with different eyes and see my life. I see myself freed of the worry of caring for Jack 24 hours a day. I see a life where I can get a good night’s sleep. I can keep the trailer clean, play my music loud, journal, color, build my web site (finally!), work a normal schedule, come and go as I please and do fun things, for me. It’s been so long since I’ve done any of that. I will have to remember how.

I am going back to Westport tonight. When I get home, I will close the door and hug the cat. I will sleep in my own bed for the first time in almost two weeks. When I wake up, I will have breakfast. I will begin the tentative process of settling in.

I will probably cry. A lot. Two and a half years of unshed tears have been spilling over at the oddest times. In the many months of caregiving, there was no time for tears. Now they are demanding to be shed. I can’t stop them. I don’t want to.

But I will heal, over time. I know this. Underneath all the churning emotions, I feel a deeper peace. I’ve done what I promised I would do and I have no regrets. Jack is safe, happy and comfortable, and he is getting good care. And I am finally coming home.