What I Want

So it finally happened. I sat down and wrote out what I want. That’s a big step for me, to put down on paper (well, pixels) something concrete and clear about what I want out of life. You see, I was always told to prevaricate, to dance around something, because when I was firm and clear, I was attacked with all sorts of questions about why I wanted it, what was I gonna do with it, why did I think I should have it, who was gonna pay for it, on and on and on ad nauseum. My mother did that to me, then my father got the hang of it and took over. He was an insurance salesman and Boy! He really knew how to argue the pants off of you. He did, too, sometimes pinning me down for hours while he expounded about how I was going to prison because I couldn’t support my family. That’s probably another reason I never had a family.

But tonight I sat down and, because I want it so much, so badly, so forcefully, I wrote down all the conditions I want in a job. A part-time job, to be sure, where I can work around my disability, but a job. Work. Where I go help someone out and get a bit of cash in return. I know the Universe has already created this position for me, all I gotta do is be ready when it appears. And I’m ready.

In other news, Sherry called today to tell me there’s a State agency that’ll build a wheelchair ramp out front, that’ll buy her a wheelchair, that’ll do all sorts of things. I’m gonna have to tell the woman, when she calls, that I really can’t do any caregiving any more. And that they’ll have to provide all that. I can’t stay if Sherry comes home, it’ll degenerate into my being her sole caregiver all over again. I go see the VA psychiatrist at the end of October, and I know she’ll tell me again that if Sherry’s here, to move out. I’d hate to have that happen, but I’d have to do it to save my sanity – or what’s left of it.

Jim told me tonight that if I let her come home I’d be in the State Mental Hospital in a matter of months. Well, that’s where I was headed last July, when the shrink told me to get out or lose it. I don’t see how I can handle Sher any better now.

Still, all she thinks about is coming home. I don’t think it’s registered with her that she has to walk well enough to support herself all the way out the building, get into the pickup truck, then get out of the pickup at home, and climb the stairs to get inside. It ain’t gonna happen. At best she’ll be able to transfer to a wheelchair, and that’ll be a disaster. Her in a wheelchair will mean she’ll be agitating to come home with a ramp here, and doors widened to allow her to get through, etc. I just can’t see it, it would mean me caregiving again. No matter how you cut it, I’m not able to be her caregiver any more. I think that’ll seep into her brain when she realizes she can’t ever walk again. Or climb stairs, or get into the pickup. MAYBE she’ll be able to get into a wheelchair, and go outside to sit in the sun – I know she misses that, horribly – but as far as coming home, I’ll have to stand my ground and tell her no. She’s in Trinity Mission for the rest of her life.

I felt so bad when she was in bed, just before she left for the hospital. I knew, just knew deep down inside, that I’d never be able to snuggle with her again, never be able to cuddle with her again. I felt so awful, I was crying…and she was caught up in her stuff. Well, that’s another thing. When she calls me or I call her, it’s always about her stuff – her interactions with nursing home personnel, or her taking a shit or a pee, or her dealing with the TV not being on the right channel, or her playing games on the computer when we’re talking, or her exercising while we’re talking…all of which makes for a very disjointed conversation. And this is like every friggin time. No matter when I call there’s a place in the conversation where she says “Hold on” and then goes and does something, with me hanging on. It’s like she doesn’t care, at all, about me or the conversation.

I think it has to do with the stroke damage – which is what she’ll tell you if you call this fractured attention to her scattered attention – but I think she’s got ADHD and dyslexia and a buncha other shit that is all merely compounded by the strokes. So trying to have a sensitive conversation with her was gone shortly after we got married, almost 19 years ago.

Of course, my bipolar disorder was in full swing all through those years, so I think I gave as good as I got. Still, now that I’m on the new meds and have calmed down some, I’m just not able to handle her stuff any more. I gotta be compassionate, just can’t be real sensitive. And all of her family is the same way as her, they yell and scream during phone conversations. Oh, well. They’ve managed for years, so they can continue to manage. Meanwhile, I’m here and they’re not. So I get to put up with it.

So I’ve degenerated, again, into talking about Sherry. Well, I need to let that topic go. I can’t do anything about it, and don’t intend to.