Until she falls back in love again.

Haven't visited my semi-friend Julie since she entered a hospital. On Tuesday. Since she conked her head. In a fall. In her bathroom. Gashed the back of her head.  And lost almost one-third of her blood. Not a pretty sight.  But I'm taking it as a blessing. That she's in the hospital. And being treated for her depression. And dependence on alcohol. Meanwhile, Julie's devoted husband Rick is keeping a daily vigil. He sets a good example. Of a husband trying to display unconditional love. He's stuck by Julie. For 25 years.  Believe me. He's been put to the test. Especially in the last 10 years. It's a wonder that the relationship has lasted.  Think about it. For over six years, Julie and  Rick cared for Julie's dementia-riddled parents. In their own home. Just a few doors down the road from me. Julie's mom died two years ago. Her 86-yesr-old father survives. Now in a five-bed residential care home. Where he's getting good and decent care. Lots of one-on-one stimulation. Mentally and physically. I try to visit several times a month. I probably could do more. I'm more focused on Julie. And her dog Sasha. I walk Sasha every day. Usually for a total six miles. I've tried. Over and over. To get Julie to walk Sasha. It would be good therapy. I'll keep trying. Sasha is good for Julie. Gives her solace. Julie allows Sasha to cozy up to her. In bed. Good therapy. For depression. But Julie really needs all sorts of therapy. Has. For a long time. She's a victim of too much non-stop care-giving. For her parents. She neglected her own care. That's a crime. Against herself. She flagellates herself. In a sense, she's killing herself. With alcohol. Sad. Sad. I watch. And wonder what I can do next. I listen. I talk. I write. If I were king and ruled by divine right, Julie would stay in the hospital, in daily treatment. Until she falls back in love again. With precious life. --Jim Broede