I didn’t know how to respond. I wasn’t
even sure she thought it was cancer until she said, “Do you think it is ‘C’?”
Apparently the act of squatting made her feel as if there was a lump somewhere
in her stomach.
This kept her awake and worrying until
around midnight. She tried to sleep in the closet, but the blankets were in
disarray so she returned to Bed-zilla.
Is the gallows humor out of place?
I married at 20, and knew at the time
that MW was at risk for HD. Of course being young and in love = fucking stupid
and I was confident that 1) she wouldn’t get it and 2) if she did, we could
manage. After all, Woody Guthrie could play the guitar.
We weren’t lucky enough to roll a 1, so
that leaves 2. But, goddamnit, MW will not do anything to acknowledge the
possibility of having, nor managing the recognizable mental and physical
symptoms of the disease. So where does that leave me?
In the gallows.
And there is a lot to laugh at around
here, if you’re of the right mind. For example, MW is gorgeous. Strikingly
attractive. But her irrational concerns over cleanliness and disease have made
her untouchable this past decade or so. And even before that, intimacy was a
rare occasion - once every couple of years kind of thing. Not that I tried much
to persuade her otherwise. Rather disgusting behavior, pressuring an HD victim
for sex. So I live with a beautiful woman I cannot touch. And I listen to a lot
of surf music.
Funny, no?
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