2016.10.20

Along with chorea and speech issues, there has been an up-take in MW's distrust and overall irritation towards me. Nothing as significant as when she accused me of trying to poison her, but I credit that to the fact that I've been extremely cautious lately. No more soapy dishes and everything gets put back in place. Nevertheless, even though all her food is prepared correctly and there are no items laying around that could possibly present a tripping or toppling danger, MW will dig through the trash to lay eyes on every piece of junk mail I throw away and on more than one occasion she's followed me when I've gone to the bathroom to ensure I don't make any unannounced detours around the house. In truth, I do sneak around and clean things when MW is not paying attention - she won't let me otherwise - so having her shadow me with the fish-eye is making things difficult around Casa Muncie.

Also, on a daily basis now, MW will pick a political fight with me. No matter how I try to deflect the issue, she will fly into a rage over how weak and useless I am because I don't support her candidate. Truthfully, I don't support or not-support either of them. I could care less. As I like to say, I've got the kind of problems money can't solve. However, because each day brings a new political "bombshell", MW has plenty of ammunition to use against me. She'll hear about some perceived outrage towards her candidate or egregious corruption of the opponent and stew over it until she explodes because I don't care as much as I should.

Over the past few weeks I've been routinely called an elitist, a wimp, an America hater, even a traitor and MW let's me know often and in no uncertain terms how much she "hates people" like me.

In retrospect, I should have registered which would have enabled me to at least lie about who I would vote for; but I just couldn't bring myself to make the effort. And I know it wouldn't have made a difference anyway. I can't possibly match MW's boundless fervor - good Lord I haven't the stamina! - so I try my best to defuse these situations. It's hard, though, because showing calm in the face of MW's fury only seems to add more fuel to that fire; and on a couple of occasions it has stopped just short of physical violence.

I will be so fucking glad when this stupid election is over. Yes, I'll take some hits afterwards, especially when her candidate loses, and even then I'm sure something else will come along, but at least there's a chance that whatever's next might be more manageable; not as persistent. 

2016.10.05

It's been a long cycle of a revolutions from incapacity to functional with wheel grinding us away a little more each time. 

We're going through another downturn now - MW has grown fearful of how her legs frequently "buckle" - and she is once again sinking into a place of despair and dysfunction. 

She speaks often of Huntington's and has been trying to box me into talking about it - aggressively asking me what I know about the disease; what are the symptoms; and wouldn't I tell her if I thought she had it?

So far I've been able to equivocate. I reassure her over and over again that she doesn't have any of the symptoms, she doesn't show any signs, and she does not have Huntington's Disease.

She keeps pressing, but I stick to my lies. What else can I do?

What really tears me apart, however, is when she starts running the numbers - talking about how her mother didn't get the disease until she was in her late sixties. How her aunt was almost seventy when she got the disease.

Plenty of time.

And I wonder what, if anything, she would do differently if I told her the truth about the time she has left. 

Would she decide to make the best of her remaining years, or would she succumb to despair?

"You wouldn't even tell me if I did have it," she noted. "Would you?"

"How can I answer that?" I replied.

She thought a moment and then said, "I guess you know I wouldn't be able to handle it."

"Well," I said. "Good thing you don't have it then."

This is a bad turn of the wheel. We're back to rearranging everything in the house to accommodate MW's anxieties. Beds and sofas moving hither and yon. Blankets tacked up everywhere. And every day she tells me she hates her job and wants to quit. I encourage her to do just that, but she stays because she's afraid of being home alone. Still, it is just a matter of time before she leaves or is fired. 

And the little disasters are increasing in frequency and severity. Every day it is some new mistake or accident from the worrisome (coming home to a house reeking of burnt food) to the bizarre (getting an upset phone call because MW hadn't been able to get her wet bra on so she had to go to work wearing three shirts and no bra. The call was to have me research bras that have a front clasp.)

The question is, will this revolution pass? Will she once again settle into a more-or-less functional state? How many more of these bad turns do we have before the wheel gets stuck?