Revised Bible

Simon, art thou reading a book? Wilt thou not watch 24/7 with me?

Matt 14:37 (paraphrased). 

And Now for Something Completely Different

My mother died on November 13, 1994.  My father died on November 13, 1995.

The Other Guy (my husband of 28 years) moved out of our home on November 8, 2013 into an assisted care facility because he had decided my job was to be his mommy and wait on him since he has COPD. 

The Patient (my husband) moved back into our home on November 9, 2014 after a brief and unexpected hospital stay. I had one year. Once back in my formerly organized and clean home, TP has become completely incapable of doing anything for himself. Amazingly, although it tires him greatly to feed himself home-cooked meals put in front of his face three times a day, he manages to get himself to the kitchen in the middle of the night for milk and doughnuts. So exhausted however, he leaves the milk on the counter next to the empty glass and crumbs.

My anger has been mostly directed mainly at inanimate objects like my hapless HP printer, which has evolved consciousness and an unaccountable determination to mess with me. Then yesterday, Heather called.

Heather:  Hi, my name is Heather and I’d like to talk to you about an exciting opportunity for a credit card with zero interest for the first year…

Me:  Heather, are you a real person or a robo call?

Heather:  (continues talking from the script for a moment, then pauses) Yes, I’m real, I’m excited about… (resumes script)…

Me:  Heather! I’m so glad you called! I just heard from your Mom’s doctor. He called me because your phone is always busy. He asked me to tell you that your Mom has late-stage syphilis and your symptoms of talking incessantly and interrupting rudely are probably connected with your own advancing and irreversible congenital syphilis. I’m so very sorry.

Heather:  hangs up.

WISIMH:  Imagine that. I hated to be the one to have to deliver the shocking news to Heather, but I totally understand how I’ve caused her world to come crashing down with this news. It will take her some time to process.

If you didn’t know me, you might suspect that I will totally fuck up anybody that gets within range of my anger. I will unhesitatingly burn them to smoldering cinders in a single piercing glance - from the deadly resentment that flares out of my eyes like a radioactive flamethrower. I will leave a smoking crater deep enough to bury Heather’s bloated poxy mom, and then use a bulldozer to cover her with all the shit she’s left behind in her apartment for me to clean out. Like The Patient, Heather’s Mom appears to have suffered from senior squalor syndrome (a real recognized subset of hoarding disorder: I shit you not.)

To be clear, this would be a kindness performed in order to spare Heather’s Mom from her final suffering.

Because, I’m nothing if not a compassionate and humane caregiver, with an indifferent approach to housekeeping and a high tolerance for used Kleenex sitting on a table next to the trash can, and an obliviousness to clutter. And without a trace of bitterness or resentment. Nothing.

I sure hope Heather can cope as well as I am. If I had her number I’d call her back and give her the benefit of some advice that was recently given to me with a straight face. Heather, I’d say, don’t forget to take care of yourself, dear, because being a caregiver is exhausting. This would never have occurred to me had not the hospice social worker sweetly delivered this message shortly before I cold cocked her with a haymaker to the throat.