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?
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