Mamma always said, “If you can't say something nice, then don't say anything at all.”
So I haven't had anything to post.
Mostly I guess, Because “Ouch” is no longer an acceptable word. Coming from me.
Understandable, given the flaming bitch that I am.
I am the one at the back of the line who cleans up the elephant poop at the end of the Hero Parade. I'm okay with that job because A) it serves a purpose—keeping others from becoming soiled, and B) I'm good at it—I'm long accustomed to cleaning up after other's shit. Physically and metaphorically on all counts.
Ironically, my problem is not with the poop, it's with the demand that I wave the fucking flag of "Rha-Rha- you are wonderful!!" while I work.
I am failing on that count. Not for a lack of trying. But I do sleep, and in sleep I dream. I dream just every now and then of being wrapped in the arms of someone who cherishes me and we sit wrapped together in a blanket gazing out on the Great Plains watching the sun set into mango-rose hues. And I have value that is expressed to me in whispered words and gentle touches...
For the most part I have been able to “schedule” these dreams Monday through Friday so that I can cry on my commute to work. I cannot tell you how bad it fucks me up to have that dream on a Saturday night. Waking up Sunday morning to find the proofing bread dough has overflowed it's pot in the refrigerator despite the fact that I followed Jacque Pepin's direction as dictated by my loving master; and the Dutch Oven I left to soak all night from the fucking chicken and dumplings (which I hate) that burned despite the fact that I followed the recipe in perfect German form from the recipe I followed to the letter in yet another effort to please.
Wait. Please.... I apologize....
I cleaned the fridge, again. And I soaked the dutch oven after a couple of intense scrapings and I curled up on the couch with a cup of coffee and wept bitterly that it was not Monday and therefore I had nowhere to go. I had nowhere to go...
I did, I swear, try to suck it up. Not because I'm a good person, but because I've been down this road too many times and held no hope. And I'm too damn tired to keep hauling my bucket to dry well. He trundled down the stairs just a wee bit before I could swallow the last of the elephant poop.
In my defense, and God knows I need one, three times I asked him to back away and let me work through this.
In truth, I am god damned tired of swallowing the elephant poop. So it started coming back up, spraying in his direction.
In my defense, Not sure how many God gives..... I kept telling him... “look, I'm just hurting, I just hurt and I need some space.”
What I failed to enter into the calculation is that everything is about him. So while I should have been crying apologies about my meltdown NOT being his fault, the other side of my soul was screaming too loud to be heard in a direct attempt to kick his German, masculine, controlling, victim facade of control and so I HURLED>>>>>So if I'm hurting it's about him and I need to present a palatable explanation of what is happening to me in relationship to him and how I'm going to make it..... okee-dokee.
Let's stop right here and review that this is NOT a Rich thing, or even a Cancer thing. It is a GUY thing.
My first mistake was that I did not wrap every word out of my mouth in “THIS IS NOT YOUR FAULT.” At some point later in the debacle I pointed out the when he was writhing and cursing in pain—he used foul language, did not absolve me in the process and I understood his pain and I was ready to do battle on all fronts to bring him a modicum of relief. Well. He has Cancer. What's my excuse?!
For sixteen years I have wanted a vacation that in some way included the Dakotas. Some people need to see Graceland, I ache to see the Dakotas. For sixteen years I have received patient explanations from Rich as to why my request is ….well... just damn ridiculous. Long ago I stopped asking. Now I am simply insulted to be asked where I want to vacation. Again. Like you didn't here the first 15 times. Are you fucking kiding me?
So now my dreams of a place I've never seen come more frequently. Wrapped in someone's arms.
Because this is how goddamned flaming selfish I have become.
We get through winter. And every spring since diagnosis the doctors have wanted to attempt a new procedure. This is where I sit bedside and cook and schlepp 28 miles round trip. By mid-summer I am able to go back to work and watch him return to his golf buddies with a soft golden-glow about his blessed crown. Then each weekend comes and he is worn out from …. his week. But he asks me what I'd like to do. Like it goddamn fucking matters when you're telling me your're exhausted, warn out and wait... what would you like to do? so I'm cool just hanging around the house and cooking and cleaning and focusing on his comfort. Jeez!! what am I going to do==be the flaming bitch who wants to get away for the weekend or go see a movie after he's complained that he has to be five minutes from a bathroom and it's all just too damn aweful. I wish I had the patience and understanding that his golf buddies have. I am such a succubous.
As you all know, I write in order to deal. I write. Not to keep score, not to stockpile ammunition. I write because that's all I have. Mostly I write so that I can understand. I write because words are all I've ever had and even now as I write I'm crying so hard I can barely see the screen.
Rich is not capable of witnessing my pain. This is not an accusation or condemnation!. The man is a saint, ask anyone who knows him. Bless his heart, he just can't deal with my pain. And I've dived so deep into his needs that I have no one to turn to now.
I just watched Rich tear out of the driveway. He's angry with me because I'm in pain and that's not right. It's not comfortable for him. I am not paraphrasing. THat is a direct quote.
I felt relieved when he left. I'm tired of my pain being responded with “I'm so sorry MY Cancer is inconveniencing You.”
I have a splitting headache. I can't stop crying. I look like Jabba The Hut on a dry day. I am so tired of this. I am so tired of watching him suffer. And selfishly, bitch that I am, I am So fucking tired of aching for a tender touch that never happens save in my dreams.
And God damn it I had the dream on the wrong damn night!!!
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