Friday, February 6, 2015

I Can't Make It REAL *Here*, So Maybe You Will Hear Me

If the last 14 months had been a musical, the unifying refrain might've been:

"Who is taking care of yew-ew-ew-eww-eww?
Whew-ew-ew-eww-eww is taking care of you?"

Asked by itinerants, by sages, by assumptives and unknown consumptives.  Asked by experienced nurses, by naive patient care technicians, and women (only women) in elevators.

I won't rerun the highlights of the last 14 months -- or the last 13 years, to be realistic.  What's at issue is now, and the fact that I cannot care for myself, nor foist that responsibility on Fred, nor fulfill the many stated, unstated, embedded, encoded, shouted, whispered and extra-sensorially transmitted job requirements of the good Captain Haddock and his family's ginormous corporate expectations.

It all seemed so simple when we shot through the intra-planetary wormhole into the hot waters of the moat surrounding Marlinspike Hall, breaching the overgrowth of red algae in our miniature pink submarine like some joyous humpback whale.  We were squatters.  We weren't even really here!

I started the conversation last year.  Precisely when, I cannot say.  Circumstantially, the timing remains forever fixed:  The day I had to deal with something hygienically gross, alone, when I was not alone. Having done so, and feeling somewhat empowered, I exited the bathroom (where else?) to slip on fresh cat vomit.
But I break a promise only paragraphs old -- that of not rerunning highlights, even if they never left my brain for their cinematic marathons.

Fred and I are going to have to separate, probably by year's end.  He can stay here, quite well, and very happily, I hope.  He's integral to the running of the place.  He never thought he'd have a home, much less a freaking Manor!  I need nursing care, so that will mean whatever the intervening months work together to create.

Right now, mouths are moving, but eyes are blanking out, and white coats are exiting rooms quickly. Therefore, it is good that we are meeting new white coats.

Fred is not hearing, not believing.  But he must, and will, soon.  I will call in other voices, and he will be shocked, perhaps fall to the floor.  I will keep as many of my promises to Sweet Fred as are reasonable, and more.

Before the end of the year, there are the steps of hiring help, learning to ask for help, compromising on some things, but not others, and considering those things that are the pudding's proof that -- in the end -- we are alone.

Also, this blog needs a hell of a lot of work.

© 2015 L. Ryan

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