2018.06.29

That last post was muchos pathos, and this may not be any better; but I'm compelled to expand, if not clarify, some of those points.

Things are bad with MW. Very bad. Picture this: last night I'm in mud boots, chemical gloves, industrial strength face mask and liquid Clorox swamping out the guest bathroom because one of the worker's she'd hired to repair the fence had asked to come in and use the bathroom. Foolishly, I allowed it. Now she's yelling at me and demanding I use Clorox to disinfect everything - and I mean everything, even the doorknobs - that he might have touched.

And that wasn't even the worst. It only cost around $100 worth of cleaning supplies/safety equipment and a couple hours. We won't go into all the time and money spent "fixing" up the house under the loopy-eye of dementia.

Also, my new favorite past-time is to take a quiet moment and look at MW. Just watch her as she sits in front of the TV. Observe her hands spasm; her legs jerk. Her fingers twitch and her mouth contort.

And yet she has no awareness. None. Everyday is spent making "house" plans then applying for jobs - which she'll never get.

She bought a wig to look younger when she goes on interviews; certain that it's her age what's causing her to lose jobs. Jesus wept.

I go along with - no, in fact, I encourage this behavior. It sometimes keeps her from screaming hateful words at me.

I am such an ass.

***

However, what if....

If I sat her down and told her that she needs to stop, take a breath, and face facts: she has Huntington's Disease.

Shining light from God and glory on high - she realizes time is short and we'd better start making the most of it.

Or

Flames from hell rising to engulf us both - depression. Suicidal depression.

But

The reality? Reality....

I think she would block me out - I've seen her do it. Just ignore me. Walk away from it and carry on the way we're going. Then accuse me of trying to get her to take meds just to make my own life easier. Hate on me even more than she does now. If that's at all possible.

***

If I weren't around, would things be worse or better for MW?

Is the reason she can still, somewhat, get out of bed and face every day because I'm there to keep her between the ditches - even though she resents the hell out of me? I take the abuse because I'm doing good. Yes?

If I were gone, what would MW do? What could she do?

Live with her family? That would be hell. No hyperbole. I've seen it; it is hell. Constant screaming, hitting, and black, black hate.

Still.... That's her family. It's where she comes from; where she may belong. It's what she reverts to when nothing else seems familiar.

She's obviously not happy with me. Just because I can't fathom happiness in her family environment, doesn't mean she....

***

Interlude:

I'm drunk. At work. Again. Yes, I know I was supposed to be observing my 4th of July lent - but events conspired against me. Oddest thing - I was picking up a togo order for MW and the twerp of a millennial bartender (sorry, he wasn't a twerp. Actually seemed like a nice guy. Anyway) asked me to "try something". A shot glass of a Mojito blend he was working on. Well. Yeah.

Couldn't really taste the booze. It was all syrup and mint. Nevertheless, I'm drinking again.

***

Not much time left, and I want to make sure these points come across:

I'm an asshole unless I'm not.

Either way - asshole or not - it is likely that I'm better off dead.

So. What am I going to do about it?

Post script.

This low feeling.... how much of it is alcohol? Curious question. I was very miserable without the drink; but recall, looking forward to my next one was all that kept me going.

Now that I've had the "next one" and many ones after, what's the point?

The bottle takith away; the bottle givith. Or do I have that backwards?

I have to go home now. Goddamnit.

2018.06.25

It's MW's birthday today. The big five-oh.

How many more? Ten. Unless my research is way off; ten max.

How many more until she finds out? Now this is an interesting question. Here we're in territory where research is no help. In fact, "research" has probably skewed my perception of reality on this one.

Research has it that once the symptoms become noticeable, the decline is typically swift.

As it was with my mother in law.

MW, on the other hand, is still charging full-speed ahead! Or, rather, charging full-speed in circles. Five years and counting of nothing getting done.

How many more?

***

And, as if we needed more proof of they cyclical nature of this disease - I've another cracked tooth. Again, not much pain yet, just a nuisance. The pain will come later.

Recall last time this happened was at the very onset of MW's Huntington's disease symptoms. She wouldn't have been able to deal with me going to the dentist, so I did it behind her back. I would have gotten away with it too, except that extracting two wisdom teeth left the side of my face black, blue and swollen. Hard to hide and any lie would come across worse than the truth.

This time I think I could probably ask her for permission to go to the dentist, and she would likely give it; because she has gotten better about some things.

***

More buzz about suicide. Yes, they're still on about Bourdain and Spade. Wankers. MW sat through an entire program about suicide prevention and then came to me with the following wisdom; "I think if someone wants to kill themselves, you should just let them."

She revised it somewhat: "I guess if they're an adult. Kids you should try to stop."

Further: "I suppose they have to give out the hotline number, though I can't see what good it does."

Indeed.

For my part; listening to the sagacity of the doctors, therapists, and "survivors"; I'm struck with how fucking wrong they all are.

None of them could face me or back me down. With Huntington's Disease, suicide is a solution. All their talk is bullshit here.

I could never kill anybody; but if I told MW she has the disease, well, that's a death sentence.

If, however, I killed myself, MW would have to get help. Real help. It wouldn't save her life, but it might make her final days happier. She couldn't possibly be more miserable then she is with me now. Probably, anyway. Very hard to tell with dementia.

Either way, I would be out of it. Released.

All those idiots talking about how "suicide isn't the answer"? They obviously haven't been asked the right question.

2018.06.13

I'm rethinking the whole "this will be the year" thing. MW has shown, like, zero self-awareness. Interviewing for employment invariably leaves her a shattered, weeping mess; moving has become well-nigh impossible; and she makes doing the simplest tasks around the house seem monumental. 

Her "clumsiness" has become alarming. She's constantly banging into things; knocking stuff down. The other day, while trying to re-cap a pen, she stabbed herself - hard - in the leg. She inadvertently punched me in the eye; like a comic book character, I saw stars. The dog refuses to eat dog-food. He knows that if he just follows MW around, sits close when she's snacking, he'll get a much better meal. As soon as she moves from the couch, he's right there to Hoover up the leavings - of which there will be plenty.

And yet - through all this - she never once entertains the possibility that she may have HD. Well, okay, that's not strictly true. She has, on occasion, mentioned it as a remote, distant event that might take place somewhere around 2040/2045. Something she can deal with AFTER her life's been lived.  

She frequently talks about how she wants to work until she's seventy years old. Even 75, she says. She never wants to retire. 

Oh, darling. 75? Oh my dear.

So whereas I started 2018 certain that she could not continue to delude herself; here we are: half way through and still no signs of discernment on her part. 

The power of denial is awesome. Truly, it is amazing. MW will slam right into a table; knock everything off, then laugh - "why am I so clumsy?" - and go about as if nothing happened.

***

"Why won't they hire me?" is another constant question - but this is fraught with danger. My pat answers have lost effectiveness from overuse and she grows angrier every time I trot one out: 

"You're overqualified."

"They have to advertise the position even if they already know who they want to hire. It's the law."

"That job isn't right for you anyway."

Once acceptable, any of these answers today will land me in a boiling pot of white-hot rage. See, these responses mean I'm not taking her seriously.

Fortunately, there are two I can still get away with:

"They're probably looking for someone younger."

And the one that makes me hate myself even more than I already do:

"They're racist."

Yes, the racism card. Guaranteed to send MW into an ugly, hateful rant on race and ethnicity. They only hire blacks. And Mexicans. This isn't even America anymore. Why can't we make English the national language? 

And on and on.

It's depressing. And exhausting - she never lets up! I'm staggered by how much vitriol and nastiness MW can muster when on a tear. And I despise myself for going there, but it beats the alternative.

***

The alternative being me. MW verbally abusing me. Yeah, yeah. Poor baby. But it can get sketchy. When MW turns it on...? So I know when we're in the kitchen and MW has a knife in her hand and she gets mad at me - and really starts unloading; yelling, screaming, calling me every name in the book - hell, I know she's not going to plunge that knife in my heart.

Right?

Of course not. 

Still, it gets sketchy.

And before you suggest that I just not do anything to set her off, allow me to relate what happened last night. We're going for a walk at the park and there's a big branch - I mean a very large chunk of a tree -picture cord-wood and you're not far off - sitting just off the side of the walkway. Part of it, in fact, jutting onto the walk. 

I move over to allow MW plenty of room to avoid the wood. As we pass it, she comments on how dangerous that is. How someone could easily trip over it. How somebody should be responsible for making sure that doesn't happen.

Then, after we've passed it, MW turns on me: "Why didn't you warn me? You must have seen it? Did you want me to fall?"

And she is furious. Genuinely, not even joking, seething with anger towards me.

I cannot not piss her off.

***

Previously I wrote about how MW has said she made a mistake by marrying me. Recently she's expanded on that. Not only should she have not married me; she shouldn't have married any white guy. It's only because her mother got sick that she even tried dating outside her race.

Understand, this is actually one of our more pleasant conversations. She'll say this when she's not mad at all. No, she talks like this with me; as if I'll sympathize.

And I do. I'm sure she's right. I have to be a tremendous disappointment. 

Still, she relies on me for everything - I mean, everything. Cooking, cleaning, making her bed, listening to her rant about how terrible I am.

I'm a caregiver for someone who hates me.

***

Which brings us to the topic of suicide. Rather on point, as the world comes to grips with two recent celeb suicides; Spade and Bourdain. Couldn't care less about either of them - except I actually actively disliked Bourdain. Understand I eschew all television - that's MW's domain. She has it going all day, all night, to whatever bullshit station she wants. Mostly Fox news, but she also liked Bourdain's show. And the Real Housewives. So he never had much of a chance with me anyway.

However, even without being lumped in with such reprehensible company, he struck me as being an egotistical, self-impressed blow-hard who made every meal about himself. Whatever. And to his credit, in the glut of info that was bandied about after his death, I learned that he had, in fact, self-diagnosed himself as being a narcissist. Too fookin' right, mate! 

But now everyone is reporting on mental health issues and promoting suicide prevention. My favorite being, "Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem." 

Nice, right? Because we all know Huntington's Disease is a temporary problem.

And of course all the noise about counseling or "just talking with someone". 

I've can't imagine there is anything anybody could say that would help me through this illness; except maybe "close your eyes, this won't hurt a bit." Conversely, who could I possibly talk to that would understand what I'm going through? Only another HD caregiver; more, only one who is trying to hide the truth of the condition. And why would I trust someone like that?

***

I'm good for awhile anyway. I really do have something to live for: my next drink. See, the 4th of July lent is working - I want to live so I can have a fucking beer. Then some vodka. Maybe that fruity wine too. 

I ache for it. I think about it all the time- it keeps me going.Whenever I feel too, too down, I imagine the first sip.

I want to live to drink again!

Which worries me. Hopping on the wagon was rough this time. The worst of it being a very nasty dream about, you got it, suicide.

In the dream, I was at the top of a tall building, explaining to somebody why it was safe to be there; all the while knowing I could die just by moving my feet from the ledge.

And I was compelled to move my feet. I felt myself moving them. Even while talking about safety, I was inching towards the abyss. 

I woke up feeling disoriented and sick. Sure, withdrawal, but even more: I regretted.... Not falling.

I'm not doing it justice, but it was bad. See, there's HD logic behind suicide: dead I wouldn't have to face the horrors of the disease stealing my wife away from me. I wouldn't have to suffer through the hatred and anger anymore. No more fear of her getting hurt or hurting others. And, really, if I were gone, she'd have to get the help she needs because she can't handle life by herself anymore. 

The lies would stop. As would the odd and various physical pains that wrack and wreck me.

This all makes sense, and I can bandy it about in my head, then consider that I can go another, maybe year? Maybe day? Anyway, I don't have to do it now. I can put it on the shelf and take it down later.

But the dream? That brought me low. It felt more real than making a logical, clear headed decision about ending my life.

The compulsion to go off the building was visceral. It was in my guts. 

It was hard to wake up.

The question is: what will happen when I start drinking again? I'm not sure I can handle another such dream.