I'm living in a horror movie.
Specifically, Invasion of the Body Snatchers - the '70s version.
I made MW mad this weekend and she screamed at me. No words, no gestures; just screaming. Just opened her mouth and - AAAAAAHHHH! - screaming. Like the body snatchers. Eyes popped, mouth a perfect circle - AAAAHHHH!
The only thing missing was the accusatory finger. That and a mustache and she could've been Donald Sutherland.
What brought it on? I gave the dog a piece of cucumber. Apparently, we're not supposed to give the dog ANY human food. Thus the rage-scream.
After it was over, MW stood just as confused and bewildered as I. Did she really act like that? She couldn't reconcile the reaction to the deed and started trying to correct it. So now we have a Scream Calendar tacked to the wall. For every day she doesn't scream, she gets a check mark on that square. Actually, two checks. One in the morning; one at night.
Yes. A Scream Calendar. Tacked to the wall. Tell me I'm not in a horror movie.
***
Worse than that, MW's leg has been "buckling" a lot. I tell her it's normal and happens to everybody, but she's not buying it. At one point she actually put hands-on-hips, rolled her eyes, and accused me of treating her like she was stupid.
"Are you kidding," she insisted. "It has to be Huntington's, right?"
Back to the wall; where do you fall?
I took a moment, centered myself, and countered. "Why are you even asking when you don't really want to know?"
Talk about thin ice!
But - ha! - it worked. She considered for a moment and then, basically, agreed. "I want to work for at least another 20 years," she said.
Because that's what she thinks she has left. Twenty years. She's sure she'll be in her late 60s, maybe even 70s before it "hits".
Christ. See? All that's missing is a John Carpenter soundtrack.
Tuesday, November 21, 2017
Thursday, November 9, 2017
2017.11.09
MW had me take a day off work so I could accompany her to a job fair for moral support. It was a three hour event in a hotel's large conference room. I walked her to the where the meeting was scheduled to take place then she quickly turned me around and shuffled me back to a chair in the corner of the lobby. She didn't want anybody to see she was there with a white guy. They'd never hire her.
You know how this ends.
In fifteen minutes, MW was done. She complained that nobody really wanted to talk with her and she only handed out one resume.
"They must have seen me with you," she complained and shot me a nasty look.
***
She didn't get the part time bank job either. Again, it was a racial thing. Nobody likes Indians. Or white guys. We're lucky we haven't been shot dead on the street yet. Yet.
***
After the failed interview and the job fair disaster, MW decided she needed to brush up on her interviewing skills and effect a more professional appearance. Jackets, now. She'll wear jackets. And earrings. Immediately after the hotel, we drove to a jewelry store and spent $1500 on a pair of "professional" earrings for next time.
Then she rushed home, hopped on the computer, and started watching youtube clips of interviewing strategies.
In the end, however, she concluded that the best path will be to disguise herself as a black woman - easy to do with her hair and skin color. All she needs is to practice the talk.
And that was interesting - listening to MW try to sound "black".
Gently, gently I nudged her away from this strategy. Or maybe I give myself too much credit, as I think she soon realized she couldn't pull it off. Anyway, we're back at square one. MW is confused and angry at her inability to pass an interview. She demands I tell her why and gets furious when I offer up lame excuses like; "you're just over-qualified" or, my favorite, "they probably already knew who they want to hire, but they have to post the job for legal reasons." That actually worked very well in the beginning, but now she's suspicious. It can't be true for every job!
***
An issue brought up by my lawyer friend was the possibility of MW being taken advantage of - financially - because of her dementia. I brushed it off - MW goes the other way; absolute and total mistrust of everybody. Even me. I can't take a dollar's worth of quarters from the lose change drawer without giving an account. However, I've noticed she's been buying a lot of crap from HSN. So far not a problem; its just more junk cluttering up my office.
I haven't had the bandwidth to worry about money. We're dying; I'm not going to nickle and dime it. This process is completely draining anyway. A million dollars; one dollar, what difference would it make? The end is going to be the same.
No, I've decided I'm not going to worry about the bank account.
You know how this ends.
In fifteen minutes, MW was done. She complained that nobody really wanted to talk with her and she only handed out one resume.
"They must have seen me with you," she complained and shot me a nasty look.
***
She didn't get the part time bank job either. Again, it was a racial thing. Nobody likes Indians. Or white guys. We're lucky we haven't been shot dead on the street yet. Yet.
***
After the failed interview and the job fair disaster, MW decided she needed to brush up on her interviewing skills and effect a more professional appearance. Jackets, now. She'll wear jackets. And earrings. Immediately after the hotel, we drove to a jewelry store and spent $1500 on a pair of "professional" earrings for next time.
Then she rushed home, hopped on the computer, and started watching youtube clips of interviewing strategies.
In the end, however, she concluded that the best path will be to disguise herself as a black woman - easy to do with her hair and skin color. All she needs is to practice the talk.
And that was interesting - listening to MW try to sound "black".
Gently, gently I nudged her away from this strategy. Or maybe I give myself too much credit, as I think she soon realized she couldn't pull it off. Anyway, we're back at square one. MW is confused and angry at her inability to pass an interview. She demands I tell her why and gets furious when I offer up lame excuses like; "you're just over-qualified" or, my favorite, "they probably already knew who they want to hire, but they have to post the job for legal reasons." That actually worked very well in the beginning, but now she's suspicious. It can't be true for every job!
***
An issue brought up by my lawyer friend was the possibility of MW being taken advantage of - financially - because of her dementia. I brushed it off - MW goes the other way; absolute and total mistrust of everybody. Even me. I can't take a dollar's worth of quarters from the lose change drawer without giving an account. However, I've noticed she's been buying a lot of crap from HSN. So far not a problem; its just more junk cluttering up my office.
I haven't had the bandwidth to worry about money. We're dying; I'm not going to nickle and dime it. This process is completely draining anyway. A million dollars; one dollar, what difference would it make? The end is going to be the same.
No, I've decided I'm not going to worry about the bank account.
Friday, November 3, 2017
2017.11.03
Yesterday I talked to a lawyer where I worked about getting power of attorney over MW because she has HD. Sounds simple, but the wrinkle being: she doesn't know she has HD and isn't receptive to the idea of being tested.
"So would she willingly sign a POA?" he asked.
I dunno. Probably. Maybe. I dunno.
"Then you would have to lawyer up and go to court."
Jesus.
He went on to explain that I should immediately write a will and maybe even establish a trust. He's right, of course, but.... If I die first, what chance does MW have, really? Even with money?
None. Best case scenario being, when the time comes, her useless tits of a family would actual take the trouble to visit the nursing home before dumping her off - never to be seen again. Knowing them, however, I doubt it. They'd just find the cheapest rate and Uber her over there. Hope the nurses don't wail on her too much.
Nope. I'm gone; she's done. Even if I do set up a trust, who would I get to oversee the account? MW hates my family. I suppose she wouldn't have a choice if I did put one of them in charge, but I can't imagine her accepting any of their care decisions.
Bleak stuff. Then again, if I'm dead, my problems are over, aren't they?
An indulgent, selfish thought, I know. But hey. I've earned it.
***
I don't want to understate the preceding event. Talking to the lawyer was huge. An irreversible act of admission. We work together. He could go tell HR and they could fire me for having a sick wife. Yeah, yeah, nobody's supposed to do that kind of shit anymore, but I'm old enough to know better.
They could. Of course they could. Hell, they probably should.
Anyway, not just that, but it was also an act of betrayal. If MW were to find out that I talked to someone about her condition? The end. She would either kill me or drive me out of the house. Already in the past week she'd flown into a rage threatened to divorce because A) I wore the wrong jacket; B) I picked up some trash off the floor (I wasn't supposed to touch it); C) I didn't read one of her emails that she'd been waiting for (I hadn't known anything about it).
God, if she knew I was conspiring behind her back? Ho shit.
Naturally, I felt guilty and sick about it all day.
Then I got home and, after about an hour or so, MW sheepishly approached me and said she had something bad to tell me.
She'd accidentally hit a car that morning. No one was hurt; not really any damage either. But our insurance might have to be notified.
Second time in as many months that she's played bumper cars with our Toyota.
And I didn't feel so bad after that. Not a clear justification; but good enough under the circumstances.
Now I just have to decide how many more of these little accident's to allow before I do something about it.
***
Some more new-ish symptoms: MW has started getting angry when reading emails and websites. She'll demand I read back and explain sentences and paragraphs to her; then yell at me when she doesn't understand the words. "That doesn't make any sense!"
So I'll read it again, patiently, and try to explain gently what it means.
Once she exploded; "It's like I don't understand English anymore!" and stormed out of the room.
Heartbreaking. And there's not much heart left around here.
"So would she willingly sign a POA?" he asked.
I dunno. Probably. Maybe. I dunno.
"Then you would have to lawyer up and go to court."
Jesus.
He went on to explain that I should immediately write a will and maybe even establish a trust. He's right, of course, but.... If I die first, what chance does MW have, really? Even with money?
None. Best case scenario being, when the time comes, her useless tits of a family would actual take the trouble to visit the nursing home before dumping her off - never to be seen again. Knowing them, however, I doubt it. They'd just find the cheapest rate and Uber her over there. Hope the nurses don't wail on her too much.
Nope. I'm gone; she's done. Even if I do set up a trust, who would I get to oversee the account? MW hates my family. I suppose she wouldn't have a choice if I did put one of them in charge, but I can't imagine her accepting any of their care decisions.
Bleak stuff. Then again, if I'm dead, my problems are over, aren't they?
An indulgent, selfish thought, I know. But hey. I've earned it.
***
I don't want to understate the preceding event. Talking to the lawyer was huge. An irreversible act of admission. We work together. He could go tell HR and they could fire me for having a sick wife. Yeah, yeah, nobody's supposed to do that kind of shit anymore, but I'm old enough to know better.
They could. Of course they could. Hell, they probably should.
Anyway, not just that, but it was also an act of betrayal. If MW were to find out that I talked to someone about her condition? The end. She would either kill me or drive me out of the house. Already in the past week she'd flown into a rage threatened to divorce because A) I wore the wrong jacket; B) I picked up some trash off the floor (I wasn't supposed to touch it); C) I didn't read one of her emails that she'd been waiting for (I hadn't known anything about it).
God, if she knew I was conspiring behind her back? Ho shit.
Naturally, I felt guilty and sick about it all day.
Then I got home and, after about an hour or so, MW sheepishly approached me and said she had something bad to tell me.
She'd accidentally hit a car that morning. No one was hurt; not really any damage either. But our insurance might have to be notified.
Second time in as many months that she's played bumper cars with our Toyota.
And I didn't feel so bad after that. Not a clear justification; but good enough under the circumstances.
Now I just have to decide how many more of these little accident's to allow before I do something about it.
***
Some more new-ish symptoms: MW has started getting angry when reading emails and websites. She'll demand I read back and explain sentences and paragraphs to her; then yell at me when she doesn't understand the words. "That doesn't make any sense!"
So I'll read it again, patiently, and try to explain gently what it means.
Once she exploded; "It's like I don't understand English anymore!" and stormed out of the room.
Heartbreaking. And there's not much heart left around here.
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