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Today was the first time his disease really got to me. Like properly crawled under my skin and camped out.
Debra, he said, fetch me my slippers. Debra, sweetheart, where shall we go for dinner? Debra, you look beautiful in that blouse.
I wasn’t even wearing a goddamned blouse. I was wearing one of James’s ratty T-shirts and jeans that have grown too loose. I am nothing like my mother. And in any case, how would he know? She was dead long before she reached my age.
For the record, Debra died in November.
I probably shouldn’t take it all so personally. His disease isn’t a personal assault on my character. That’s what James said when I told him.
He didn’t know my mother.
Perhaps my husband has a point, though. Yesterday, Dad thought I was someone he knew, back in college. Jamie…or maybe it was Amy. I can’t recall. He doesn’t either.
To pass the time, I indulged him. I pretended, making sure to nod my head in all the right places. I wasn’t half bad at it either. I told him what I thought he wanted to hear. It’s just a game, I reminded myself, when it very nearly got to be too much.
The kind of game I’m becoming more and more familiar with.
I have to be careful about that, though—about giving away too much too soon. This is why I was careful to save my true feelings for later, as you learn to do. Sometimes I pretend other things too. Sometimes I tell myself it’s all fine, and that I’m capable of hiding the parts of myself that need to stay hidden. I’m good at compartmentalizing. I bottle it all, storing my emotions for a time when they can safely come out to play. So far, I have yet to figure out when that might be.
I don’t know if it even matters, considering. All I know is that if this is the ending that’s coming for me…please—just shoot me now. I don’t want to die like my old man.
The thought makes me only slightly more forgiving of Debra for going out with a bang. She died young and beautiful, while she was still on top, which is more than I can say for the rest of us. Especially if I take a look around this place.
Still. I have a lot to live for. So just in case anyone I know happens upon this journal…let it be known… I am not a suicidal person.
I am not my mother.
Obviously, that isn’t the answer. I know that.
It’s just…yes…sometimes I do think about how easy it would be just to throw up my hands and call it a day. Cop out. Game over. Sometimes I even entertain myself with the manner I’d go about it. I’m coming to find there are endless ways. Humans are far more fragile than we want to believe. I’ve never told anyone that. But it sure feels good to write it.
Maybe my husband is right…maybe this is too much. Maybe I need to see someone. It’s just…well, I don’t think that person needs to be a shrink. I’m not crazy. And I don’t understand how someone else, a so-called expert even, could possibly have answers about me that I don’t have myself.
It seems a bit pointless. Aren’t we supposed to grow in wisdom with age? More and more, I am coming to realize, I don’t really know anything for sure. How’s that for an admission? James would eat it up, for sure.
Maybe this is why I’m writing this down. Maybe it’s to prove a point. See? Look at me. I’m not losing my mind. I’m still myself. I’m still me. But I’m also someone else.
I guess I sort of have to be.
Every visit, there’s less and less of him in the bed.
And in another way, there’s less of me sitting in the chair next to his bed.
He’s fading away. And there’s nothing I can do. My father—probably the only man who has ever really loved me—is just lying there…wasting away, slowly and painfully, for the both of us.
I know that isn’t fair to James. He loves me. He does. But not like my dad. Maybe no one can ever really love you like your father. Maybe I’m terrified this is true, and maybe I can’t bear the thought of finding out.
And there it is…just another thing I don’t know. I should probably start a list or something. Maybe then I’d be less anxious.
I think it’s the change. James says it’s understandable on account that I haven’t been getting any sleep. He says I need to stop taking care of everyone else (himself included) and start focusing on myself. He says I need to get better at dealing with change. He’s right, I suppose. I’ve never cared for change, and I hate this place. Caring Hands. It’s so cliché it’s almost funny. Dad said so himself on one of his good, lucid days.
This is hard for him too. I have to remind myself of that. He doesn’t mean to be a burden. He wasn’t sick enough to stay in the hospital, and not well enough to be sent home, so here we are.
They’re nice enough at least. The place only slightly smells of stale piss. The antiseptic covers it quite nicely. The nurse left a booklet, which I flipped through briefly. It also suggested writing things out. It said it would help. So here I am, doing what I know, keeping records, the same way I do with James’s illness, as though a cure can be found in words.
My husban
d always says you should never put anything in print—that you might as well slit your wrist and bleed onto the page, it’s that serious. That’s James for you. I’ve always adored these qualities in him. His petulance—his inability to sugarcoat, to bullshit. It’s why I fell in love. It comes in handy at times like these.
