memory lane's walk
it feels like a vacation
there has been much love
Yesterday was the 20th anniversary of our first date. Crazy. And as we ate a delicious meal from our favourite restaurant, with a table lit by a candle, we talked about our favourite trips, our favourite memories, and all the things we want to continue holding dear.
It's funny what we both remember, and don't remember. One of my favourite trips with the kids is our trip to NS, where we rented a cottage on the ocean and played all week in the tides and the red sand, the cold water tickling our feet. We did day trips to parks, saw some friends, and read and drank. The kids, generally, were well behaved and for being on the ocean, I don't remember fretting about them getting hurt (probably because it was cold).
He barely remembers that trip - it's lost for him in a sea of other NS memories - the camping trips taking a far more precious place with him. Some of those memories I like, but others are clouded by rain and dirt and cooking over fires and I don't quite love them the way he does.
His favourite memories are trips to the zoo and ROM, eating out with the kids, and day trips. Mine are the pajama days we spent in the basement watching trilogies. We purposely did not talk about the bad: the endless court cases, our son's mental illness and behaviour, Bob's worsening disease.
It's refreshing to my spirit to remember only the good right now, and to hold it close. So much is changing, I'm glad we have those memories.
listening, I feel
empowered to understand
why he's not talking
I'm sitting at my desk - as I typically do in the mornings before my breakfast or shower. I answer emails, plan my day, and otherwise try to figure out the approach I will take. And whilst doing so, I listen to my husband and his PSW chat.
His PSW was off for a few days and got tested for Covid. My husband is waxing poetical about the threat of covid. About how he was worried, finding out his PSW was off sick, that perhaps his presumed bladder infection was more than a bladder infection, and that he should have listened to me (he didn't say that part, I added it) and go for a covid test last week. But he didn't, and allowed himself to be placated that it was just a UTI, and then had to think about the myriad of folks he might have infected, by not checking.
And the bigger question is - why is he chatting about this, so open in his thoughts and interested in opinions, when he is no longer this way with me. That's what prompted our fight last night - his compartmentalizing things when I need him to not - angry that I'm anti-organized religion and that I'm bringing it up while he's drawing or while he's watching the game. I'm sorry I only have crises when it's inconvenient.
Choose a word to describe yourself. Inconvenient.
I'm the nurse and maid and cook. I do his bidding. He loops me in where he thinks I might be helpful - coaching his team or asking performance questions. He argues even the smallest details with me, to the point where I become weary speaking with him or full of anxiety. I miss the introspective, funny man who used to share his inner most thoughts. Now he speaks to me in sentence-commands: i have a meeting starting. i thought you were bringing my shake. why are we doing this now? i'm out of prune juice.
This morning he tried to link my refusal to deal with organized religion - because of my past, the abuse, the hatred, the endless ruination - with amazon shopping. How leaders at amazon have probably manipulated or lied or ruined or abused pepole - and yet we still use the service. I stood there, thoughts shouting loudly, and said I didn't quite get his point and would he like a coffee?
Maybe it's me that has made this relationship transactional.
so flipping angry
parts of me still missing, from
the theft of my soul
I started a fight tonight about organized religion. I'm so sick of it. Propping up Trump, misleading children, making people stupid. But not my husband. He's convinced it's mostly good people doing good things and just flawed, sometimes.
We both said things we can't take back. I don't even want to.
there were, I suppose
tiny hints along the way
that i overlooked.
There was an argument here yesterday. My husband does intermittent fasting (I gave it up after 3 or 4 months - having seen no results and spending each and every of my mornings thinking about food) and I do not. He eats between 12 and 8 every day. I eat normally, and try to eat as fuel and conciously.
Yesterday, he had his shake - which is peanut butter, almond milk, spinach, banana, and his cocktail of seeds and stuff that helps his bowls. I then made myself a tortilla with ham, cheese, and salsa. An argument ensued.
Apparently, me making myself a nutritious lunch is triggering his lack of self-discipline and creating so much fomo for him that he's over eating and gaining weight. I need to be more supportive. Upon inspection of this concept - support - what he means is going back to IF, and starving all the fucking time, and eating shakes even tho i do not like them or find them filling. My answer was that he needs to get his shit together and figure himself out.
I'm sorry, but I don't need to alter my eating or change the foods I like because you want to do both your diet and mine.
Sometimes, life is just annoying.
everyday, challenge
broken and misunderstood
why can't all survive?
I'm sitting at my desk, listening to the Fray's How to Save a Life. When I was younger and watching 90210, there was a scene where Brenda was listening to Losing My Religion and someone asked why and her response was, "this song was playing during a really hard time in my life, and I recovered, so when I'm sad I listen to it to know I'll get through this".
How to Save a Life is my sad-song. My it's-okay-to-cry song, my "what the fuck is wrong with this entire fucking life" song. It wasn't playing when I sat in a car with Mark after his grandfather died and we had a get real conversation, but it feels like it was. It was the moment I was I could reset to, some days. I remember the song when he died, when Jonah died, when my friend's child died.. it's that song for me.
There's another song, too. Worlds Apart by Jars of Clay. It's my "why can't I believe in God anymore?" song. When what I feel and what I believe are worlds apart.
My aunt is in the hospital with Covid. She's 76. It seems old, but when I was 30, 50 seemed old and I turn 50 in less than 2 months so I'm kinda worried about the whole how old is old thing.
If you're reading this, send her good thoughts. She means a lot to me.
some days are harder
lungs filled with anxiety
afraid to breathe in
I had an anxiety attack last night. It's been coming for a week, I think, but I hoped I could tamp it down like I do the grinds of coffee before making espresso. I few my feelings like that, can I push them down to make room for what needs to fill my day, creating espresso for others instead of a mess for myself.
I don't do anxiety well. When the grinds refuse to be tamped, and take up too much space, and the water still sprays in - the mess is incredible. Feelings and tears and a racing heart. Amusing antidote: my heart raced so bad that my fitbit recorded it as exercise and started "celebrating" near the end of it. YAY me, reaching my fitness goal by falling apart. And I didn't quite "fall apart" - the image I would share is tamping coffee grinds down to make espresso. When things are tidy you can tamp your emotions into a container, in advance of the spray, and make a nice, smooth drink for those around you. Last night was more like coffee grinds blowing all over the kitchen in a spray of hot water - making a mess we'll have to clean up this morning. No drink to enjoy - just a very hot mess.
I'm not looking forward to cleaning up the mess.
And so, I sit at my desk, pretending normal and watching a very fat bird eat from our feeder.
he bought me sweet tarts
and it made me laugh; comfort
is knowing you're loved.
I'm not a fan of the candy, per se, but I'm a fan of being known. Sweet tart is sort of my personality - powdery pressed sugar aside. He bought those, knowing I'd laugh, and that's enough, sometimes. Knowing that you're known.
Just like yesterday he would have preferred to go with me on my walk but he knew I needed to be with a female friend, and process my day by walking down a path and seeing deer and watching as day became dusk and dusk became evening. He knew that as much as I love him, sometimes walking with him is not easy, and sometimes I'm looking for easy.
Today, as I sit at my desk and begin my workday - I feel loved and understood.
the voice in the dark
is his - soft, warm, calling out
can you move my legs?
So, like many women across the globe, I too get to nurse the man child back to health. And don't get me wrong, a UTI is no laughing matter and he has every right to be grumpy and blunt. But it sucks, and I'm back to work, and at 6:46 in the morning I did not deserve or want to have an argument about my sterilization of a glass jar. And yet. We did.
I'm at my desk now. Back here like the last ten days never happened - that my gentle schedule of up, coffee, walks, video games, and crochet was just a dream. Remnants remain - in the recycling that isn't outside yet, a wine bottle stands proud and empty, and a half-consumed bag of doritos flaunts herself shamelessly.
I'm struggling with some mom-guilt and some mom-fury this morning. My middle boy - the business owner and moody one - is not staying here at the moment. He thinks covid is a bit stupid and refuses to curb his visiting of friends. So with a medically fragile husband, I had to make the call to ask him to leave. He stayed with a friend, went up north with another friend to see his father, and then stayed with that friend's mother last night when he returned. Since Wednesday, he's stayed with at least 8 people in four households - and that's not counting here, before we asked him to leave. Yikes. So I feel some mom-guilt about that, and some mom fury finding out how many of those people (1 of them a paliative nurse!) let it happen, and that he did mushrooms with his father.
Bob says my ex is "a toddler" and just does whatever he feels like doing in the moment - but seriously. How do I deal with this? Our youngest lives on the street and uses drugs and alcohol to deal with his mental illness and now my middle guy - the business owner and emotionally scarred from our fighting son - uses mushrooms as therapy and does so with his dad.
I'm tired of being the only grownup. Covid is real. Mushrooms are not therapy. My children's father is a hot mess and turning my son into one. All of this while I give suppositories and catheterize my husband and make meals and shovel the driveway and work long hours as a learning professional. Ugh.
buttery shortbread
tastes best when shared. he assures
my package of love.
A christmas stocking is not complete without some Walkers shortbread. Don't get me wrong, there's some amazing shortbread companies out there - but at Christmas, I want the walkers. Bob always finds some for me, and we share it as we transition out of the holidays and back into real life. It's the last Sunday of our "vacation". Tomorrow, we're back at work.
I grumble and complain a lot in this blog. Unintentional. I think it's the only place I can really share all the ugly feelings I have, though. The stress, the worry, the fucking resentment and frustration. Everywhere else I'm the paver - paving his way, making sure nothing is a big deal, slapping on smiles or advocating for him. I'm a super-great wife, in my own opinion.
Today was a rough start to a day - it involved more body fluids than it had a right to, escalating into pain and doctor's virtual visits and a run to the pharmacy. He's still in pain - but decreasing down into discomfort. 2 p.m. on a Sunday before returning to work and I'm blogging, thinking about a walk, and trying not to worry. I'm not looking forward to his bedtime routine, tonight, not that I ever do - but tonight especially. Sticking a tube up someone's wiener is brutal enough without an infection attached.
I ordered some driveway salt and wiper blades today from a local big box store that I happen to work at. Waiting for that to come in since my wipers fell apart the other day and it's snowing here and I hate driving our wheelchair van. Nothing says "life is not worth living" like a 13 year old beige wheelchair van. Functional, yes. Fun, no.
What's with employee engagement?
I looked at my email and saw I was invited to a 90 minute session on health and wellness to improve my engagement. I've no words to describe how badly misunderstood I feel right now.
Rested - or maybe
A feeling that she's at peace
Fleeting, but lovely.
I'm 49, married, three kids, two dogs, one demanding career.
I wake up around 6:30. I get my husband up - he has MS. This means rolling him over and putting him into a sling to lift him with a mechanical lift and take him to the washroom. While he's in there, I put last night's dishes away and make coffee, sometimes I fold laundry to ensure he has the right clothes to wear. Before seven I unlock the door, lay out his clothes, and put the dogs in the back yard. I also check work email, if I can. If it has snowed and the plow has not yet come, I shovel. If it's been 3 days since he's had a bowel movement, I give him a suppository.
His PSW is here for about an hour between 7 and 8. He showers, dresses, and preps Bob for the day. I usually check work email and lay out my clothes during this time.
Around 8 I have my shower and get dressed, and am usually available for my first video conference around 8:30. Pre-covid, I got up at 5, and was ready to leave for the city around 6, when his PSW arrived.
Our days are as days are. He works in his office, I work in mine. He leads a team of engineers and I work in learning. I check on him between meetings - perhaps empty his urinal, grab him a snack or coffee, take in his lunch. I plan and make dinner. If he needs the toilet or drops anything, I am available.
After dinner, we watch TV or play video games - and I get him ready for bed. I put the sling behind him in the wheelchair, bring the lift over, fasten everything on, undress him, wheel him to the bedroom and undo the sling. I catheterize him, ensuring a better night's sleep for us both, and position him in bed. After he's tucked in - rolled over, positioned, pillow correct, light off, sleep music on - I do more chores. The dishes, start some laundry, plug in his phone and wheelchair, empty his urinal from the catheter and replace it with a clean one, put the dogs outside and to their room, and then start my sleep preparation.
It works. For us. We used to say that once he lost control of his bladder or bowels he'd be in a home, but he's not even 50 and he's still working and leading a team. We used to worry about a power wheelchair, but we crossed that bridge, too.
a new morning, I
wait for the day to find me
as I keep covered
Good morning. I think I'm one of the few people who is not losing their mind about 2020 being over. Instead, I go into this new year with complete thankfulness about the lockdown; it allowed me to be home with Bob through all the changes we had to negotiate.
2020 was the year he transitioned to work from home, and could do it with thousands of others. He got his mental health on track, we navigated all the new treatments and procedures that are now part of our routine, and we managed to do it all while working, loving one another, and never letting go of the last string.
I had an entire year to grieve - my marriage, my life - and to put my head on straight without having to worry about crying for no good reason in the office. Even at home, once, someone asked, "how ARE you?" on the screen and I had to step away and cry because no one had asked me in a while.
My niece told me that my brother had a CT scan and gets his results next week. He may have cancer again. I'm deciding how to deal with that - now that he's removed me from his life. I've no idea why he's so angry, and asking makes him angrier. He told me to fuck off, and I have. I want to reach out and make sure he's okay, but I'm also a bit tired of being the family's beaten dog. What if he gets sick? What if he dies?
But then I think, "really?" They ALL know what I'm going through here and no one raises a hand to help. Does it matter? I'm not sure anymore.
This year - I'm focusing on the word STRENGTH. It means "the capacity to withstand great force or pressure I think it resonates with the things I'm working on in my body, mind, and home.
