MW fell last week and twisted her ankle. Wasn't bad, swoll up some; able to put weight on it and was walking around within minutes.
Physiologically, however, she's busted up pretty awful.
"Why did I fall?" she's asking, over and over again. Waking me up at one in the morning: "Why did I fall?"
Everybody falls. Nothing to worry about.
Then, again, yesterday she twists the same foot - just a hitch - but oh boy! "Why do I keep falling? Why do I lose my balance all the time?" ad nauseam.
Everybody... loses their balance. Nothing to worry about.
Even drunk, I stagger some, but I don't really fall down. So yesterday I gave serious consideration to staging a fall of my own, thus proving my point. Ah, but I'm not young anymore. I don't bounce back up. And though I'm walking-wounded, I'm still walking, and we need that.
I can't go down. Not all the way. We'll sink.
***
MW has been trying to decide on moving or renovating and this weekend she finally made a decision: we'll do both! So we're looking at houses while shopping for contractors. Oh, she's also buying new furniture which we can't use. Last week we purchased an office desk, put it in a room MW wanted to convert to a study; and then had to deconstruct it almost immediately. It's complicated, but we have a two story house and the atrium is open so you can look out a large window from the second floor. MW is obsessed with the comings and goings of our neighbor, so she spends a lot of time looking out windows. Anyway, the 2nd floor room she chose to be the study opens to the hall from which she can look out the large window.
And that's hazardous because if she's looking out the window, she's not paying attention, and could trip and fall down the stairs.
So we can't use that room for a study; therefore, we can't use that desk.
$2,000 down the drain. That's on top of the, oh, say, $1000 worth of estimates and designs she's paid for but won't use. My favorite money spent to those efforts was $100 to a handyman who provided estimates for replacing box lighting in the kitchen. As soon as he left our house, MW proclaimed she would never use him because he's an Indian. Nice.
***
Maybe I'm hypersensitive, but we met a real estate agent to view a house and I got vibes from her that she knew something was wrong with MW. It was a two story house, but the master bedroom was upstairs. This, of course, did not set well with MW. Stairs, as you know, are on the enemies list.
MW tried explaining to the agent why she couldn't have the upstairs master - phrases like "I'm careless" and "I lose my balance a lot" and "I'm always chasing the dog around".... weird stuff. And that's when I felt a subtle change in the agent's approach to MW. Or maybe I'm too sensitive; but it seemed to me like she backed off from trying to make a sale and moved more towards an "okay, no sudden movements." demeanor. There was one point, when MW was relating all the recent times she's tripped and fell, where I caught the agent looking at MW with confusion and concern; like she noticed the odd movements of her body even when standing still.
***
Most weekends are hard, but this one seemed exceptionally rough. I like to think I've become an expert at navigating dementia, but I couldn't do anything right. MW snapped and yelled and insulted and cussed me for 48 hours straight.
I'm so grateful to be back at work. Unfortunately, MW is making me take another day off this week because we have to go see my niece's senior recital, which, if we didn't live in an HD house, I could easily just go to after work, but nothing is ever easy for us. I have to take the whole day off to help MW prepare. We're not doing anything but showing up, sitting for a couple hours, then leaving, but it is a social event and those are always stressful.
So another short work week.
I hate it. I hate the weekends. I dread Fridays.
***
When you can't hear the rhyme and you can't see the reason.
Why should the hope remain?
For a man will be tired and his soul will grow weary.
Living his life in vain.
I've been ruminating on hopelessness lately, thank you very much Alan Parsons.
Spring is a hateful time; all green and blossoming and full of burgeoning life. Brutal to those of us who live with relentless death. And yet, as I'm putting the dog out at night, the full moon and chill breeze makes me marvel and I think unbidden - If I live through this, I'll cherish every day. I'll never squander another moment of precious time.
And then my head snaps to the back door where MW will soon appear, a scowl on her face, hissing at me to hurry up and bring the dog in. We've wasted too much time already.
I feel sick, now. Live through this? A joke! That can't happen and I know it. MW and I are entwined, for better or worse, and we will be dead soon.
It is hopeless. No amount of moonlight or crisp air can change that. I'm for the darkness and stagnation of the grave and everything else is just mockery.
I'm disgusted with myself. I drink. I make it through another day, but I don't know why.
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