2016.05.16

Is it possible I am dealing (or trying to deal) with "survivor's guilt"? Because unless something untoward (or incredibly lucky) happens, I know MW, my partner, will die within the next ten, maaaaybe twenty years. Where will that leave me? A survivor. With guilt.

Survivor's Guilt. The term connotes war. So does it apply here or is it an overstatement? Interesting question.

Anyway, that latest weapon in the enemy's arsenal is uniquely wicked: last night MW accused me of trying to kill her. Poison her, to be exact, by putting Clorox in her drinking water.

She came to this conclusion after sniffing her bottle and deciding it smelled like Clorox. Of course, I'm the one who washes the dishes; also, I'm the one who always fills her bottles, ergo, I'm the one who poured bleach in there.

It was odd in that she really was worried about it, asking me numerous times why the bottle smelled like Clorox. Since I was driving, I couldn't stop to smell it, but I just shrugged and said "dunno". After awhile, she asked if I was trying to poison her. I laughed, thinking it was a joke.

It wasn't.

When we got home, I sniffed the bottle: not anything close to Clorox - possibly a little soapy because it hadn't been rinsed thoroughly (mea culpa) - then I drank it all to show it wasn't poison, but the damage had been done.

She seriously thought I was trying to poison her by mixing a little bleach in with her water.

It didn't turn into one of those disastrous, protracted situations, but it was worrisome. At one point she tried to back out of it, telling me that she had only been joking, but then she went on about how she thinks those kinds of thoughts because she watches a lot of TV and husbands are always killing their wives on TV.

I told her not to worry about it; I hadn't taken her seriously. Also, I understood where she was coming from - TV is pretty terrible - and, most importantly, I hadn't been - nor would I ever - try to kill her.

It blew over fairly quickly, but that was some next level shit. It isn't easy taking care of MW under the best conditions. If she starts thinking of me as "the enemy"...?

2016.05.09

Today's lesson: How to succeed by fucking up.

Since the knee buckling incident, talk at Casa Muncie had been whirl-pooling around HD like a sink that won't drain. MW would not/could not stop obsessing over the possibility of her having the condition. My job, then, was total reassurance that she does NOT have it. It is, after all, impossible to self diagnose the condition. You have to be tested for it, otherwise you'll never know for sure. So, if you won't get tested, the best thing is to just live like you don't have it. Yes?

Over and over and over again. Constant reassurance. But the interrogation... the never ending questions. Hey, if you need to know just how great a liar I've become, here's a few samples:

MW: "You've studied HD. Knee buckling is not a symptom?"

Me: "Right. Knees buckle on everybody, all the time. My knees buckle all the time. I don't have HD, so...."

MW: "Then what are symptoms of HD"

(We'd spent 15 years watching her mother go through the process. She knows good and goddamned well.... never-mind)

Me: "There are no symptoms. You'll never self identify symptoms. You can't self diagnose the disease. You just have to live your life like you don't have it."

MW: "My mother couldn't walk a straight line. Should I try...?"

Me: (blocking her path) "Wouldn't prove anything. Lots of people can't walk a straight line; when they've been sitting or as they get older and their legs get tired. Whenever I stand up, I stagger all the time. 

That last part's no lie. I'm drunk all the time; so, yeah, I stagger. Want more? Here's another:

MW: You would tell me, right? If you thought I had it?

Me: Of course.

MW: Because if you thought so, we'd have to sit down and talk about how we would manage it.

(Crash! Boom! Bam! Is this the opening I've been waiting for? Should I tell her, yes, oh my yes, she does show symptoms and we desperately do need help? No.... no.... hold on a moment. Let's see where she takes this first....)

Me: Right

MW: But my mother didn't show signs until she was in her late sixties. So I have another twenty years left, even if I do have it. I wouldn't want you to tell me if you thought I had it. 

Me: You don't show any symptoms. You don't have it.

That last one? That last lie? Breaks my fucking heart. MW brings up the fact that her mother wasn't diagnosed with the disease until she was in her late sixties like it is a touchstone; like it's a talisman. Protecting her for at least twenty more years.

But I have studied the disease. Huntington's is called an "anticipatory" gene. That means subsequent generations experience its effects earlier than their predecessors. MW doesn't have twenty years. At this rate, she might not even have two.

That's a lot of slag for one man to carry. Hence the drinking.

Which brings us to the point of today's lesson: The fuck up and the triumph.

Last weekend I was down to just beer so Saturday, as soon as MW went to spend six hours at her part time job, I tore ass to the liquor store. $100 lighter, but heavy with bottles, I raced home and popped a cork. I told myself only one bottle, as MW would be home in the afternoon and I had plenty of chores to do around the house before that happened. See, some of these chores (laundry, changing light bulbs, washing dishes, cooking, etc.) I'm not able to do when she's around, so I have to be sneaky about it. Anyway, one bottle didn't last long so I figured two couldn't hurt. Hell, my tolerance? I could handle two in six hours. Easy.

5:00 p.m. MW comes in and finds me passed out on the computer chair with Dio blasting from the speakers.

There's the fuck up.

Give me credit, though, I had finished the chores, including hiding all the booze and disposing the two empty bottles, so all she saw was me dozing.

Explain that without using the words "drank, drunk, drink."

Turns out my clothes were in the drier, but that's no excuse for zonking off while sitting in a chair listening to heavy metal music.  

Now comes the triumph.

MW was so upset by this incongruous behavior, she has totally forgotten about her knee buckling and HD. Now she's sure I suffered a small heart attack or stroke or something and is obsessed with the thought of me passing out and burning down the house because I left the stove or the drier on.

Small triumph. And there is a downside in that MW no longer trusts me to be at home by myself so she didn't go to work on Sunday and will probably quit her job before next weekend. 

Also, I felt compelled to throw all the liquor I'd just bought away because clearly it is time to step back for a while. 

And here's some more comedy for the alcoholics: ever try to toss $100 worth of booze away on the sly? Not easy, right? It's pretty heavy. And As soon as I lift the garbage bag from the trash barrel, I notice one of the bottle necks has poked through. Goddamnit.

Quickly try a double bag. Nope. Same bottle neck sticking out. Double Goddamnit.

Whatever. Just haul out the barrel and let the garbage men deal. Ah, but it is windy and rainy and as soon as MW sees the barrel on the yard, she tells me not to leave it there. It'll blow away or fill up with water.

No, I assure her, no, the rain and wind will stop soon. I saw the weather report.

Lie, lie, lie.

And, of course, after diligently purging the house of all booze, last night I discover a bottle I'd missed in one of my old hiding places. Sheeee-it.