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.
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