Damn the holidays.
It has been two years since I first became certain that MW has Huntington's Disease. Two years ago I thought it would be only a matter of days, maybe months before, faced with the obvious, she would surrender to the depression and hopelessness and go on some kind of "disability". Not that I ever believed she would actually get tested and treated; rather, she would just quit life and sit at home all day, every day, atrophying. And, subsequently, I would have to quit my job to take care of her.
24 months later and, bless her heart, she is still plugging away. Still working; still getting out of the house. Overall a triumph, I suppose, but it has been exhausting.
HD is my personal Sword of Damocles and I've been shuffling along under that guillotine for so long now, my back is permanently bowed, my guts are weak, and my thoughts are black as pitch. I take it everyday simply because I have no choice. I welcome the aches and pains that rack my body as I lay down at night on the unbidden hope that they might prevent me from ever waking up again. But, inevitably, I do wake. And shuffle along yet another day, one hateful eye glaring up at the blade waiting, waiting, waiting.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. My coworkers ask what my big holiday plans are and, of course, I lie. Oh, you know, spending it with family. In reality it'll just be me and MW with nothing to do; nowhere to go, and all I can do is try very hard keep her from sinking into depression caused by the goddamned expectations of these brutal holidays.
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