We're Getting There
Thu., June 22, 12:04 PM
When the children were little and got restless during a long drive, particularly on the way home, Husband would begin to chant, “we’re almost there, we’re almost there.” After a while, the kids chanted with him. Thirty years later, as we plan a trip to Boston to meet with our future machatonim, that is, the parents of our son’s fiancée, there’s a similar title on e-mails between Son and U.D.: “We’re getting there.”
Son has made train reservations for us as well as luxurious hotel reservations. With Husband’s frailties, we are planning a two-night stay in order to go to dinner once. I thought it was providential that Costco online offered a deal on a folding wheelchair last week, and it has now been delivered. It will be fine because (1) I can manage it and (2) he fits in it. We will need several days of discussion to get him on track (long before we get to the railroad station, you understand). I will explain where we are going, why we are going, when we are going; and he will forget, because he really hasn’t understood what I’m saying.
Yesterday U.D. made arrangements to take Husband to the tailor after work, because the mail-order blazer, while very nice, just doesn’t fit right. (Or maybe it’s he who doesn’t fit right. Whatever.) I reminded him to be ready for her, and when she phoned to say she was on her way, I went into his room to check on him. He was in bed; I yelled at him. When she arrived, he was still in there, groaning about something. “What’s the matter?” “I can’t get my shoe on.” “Why didn’t you call me?” Grumble, grumble. I got the shoe on and turned both blazer and Husband over to U.D. She has taken a lot of trouble for him.
Other news: the diet. I lost all the extra pounds I had gained in the past year, and now I’m stuck plateaued at about ten pounds below what had been my stable weight for seven years. It’s nice to have loose clothes that used to be more than a little snug. I’d say it’s time to try maintaining this with real food. The doctor was very happy with my last blood readings, and I didn’t tell her how I had accomplished it. Glucose and cholesterol with much lower numbers. But I’ll tell you, while I don’t feel bad, I don’t have the energy I had before. Another invisible line, perhaps.
U.D. has offered to help Husband with some of his personal care, using some of her special skin products. This morning he started asking me, “Why can’t I do it by myself?” He’s trying to play one side against the other, of course. The real reason he can’t do it by himself is that he won’t; if he took care of himself to begin with, we wouldn’t have to offer to help him. What I told him was, “I don’t know how to use her stuff.”
His next question was, “why do I have to do it in the shower?” I don’t know how to make a shower any easier for him; maybe we should put a mattress in the tub and let him sleep there! And I tell him, he’ll have to accept her help, because I just can’t take care of him any more. “Well, you better see a doctor.” Me?
He’s making me crazy. “Well, then you’d better see a psychiatrist!” A psychiatrist would tell me to leave him. “Go ahead, divorce me!” I asked whether he has to money to give me for my half of the house, which elicited just a sarcastic laugh.
Of course, I’m not going to leave him. And not because he wouldn’t have the money unless we sell the house. I would not leave him because he turned in his brain thirty-eight years ago and doesn’t even know whether he has the money or not. I promised to take care of him. I can’t take care of his body, because he won’t let me, but I can still take care of his financial affairs. Someone is going to the loony bin. Am I getting there?
