My wife has Huntington’s Disease, but she doesn’t know it. I’m an alcoholic. She doesn’t know that either.
Long ago she specifically asked me to never, ever tell her
if I thought she had the disease. And so, I haven’t.
I’m able to hide my alcoholism partly because I’m just that sneaky,
but mostly because MW has advanced dementia symptoms. I’ve made a study of it: I’ll
go through a whole day without speaking two words in a row to MW. Maybe I’ll
grunt and go “uh, yeah, um”. Or, worst case scenario, I’ll commit to a “yes” or
“no”, but that’s it. And those are the good days. If I ever must engage her in
a meaningful conversation, it’ll go sideways quick. Those are the hard days.
Those are the days that end with me sick on vodka, hugging a toilet bowl, praying
for a purge before dragging myself into the shower for an ice-cold blast before
going to work.
Those days I hate myself for not being able to do anything
for my wife as she turns into a rictus faced, demonic mouthed creature with spastic
claws for hands and a pitchfork tongue – cussing me like I’m some dog that just
shat on the rug.
It’s not her fault, I know. It’s the disease. I get that.
But I wonder if I’m more a hinderance than a help. Oh, I do enable her. I allow
her to have her head on everything. Our house is a horror-show – nothing makes
sense. She hasn’t worked in years – well, that’s not true – she got a weekend job
answering phones for a shopping network. But I must sit right next to her, whispering
in her ear what to say and what to select on the computer. She says she needs
the job. She’s grateful for my help. Then, of course, I’m a fuckwad for not
having her meals prepared when she’s hungry.
All this while I work an average 50 hours a week at a real
job.
I’m stretched so thin – I’m an alcoholic vapor. I evaporate
before I make an impression on your eye.
And I wonder….
If I weren’t around, and MW had to get real help…
Real help.
People who would be brave enough to tell her the hard truth.
Prepare her for the reality of her condition. People who would demand of her an
acceptance of reality.
Not I. I who will take the blame whenever she drops a plate;
“I’m sorry. I must not have dried it good enough. It was probably slippery.”
Even though that means I’ll spend the rest of the night listening to what a piece
of shit I am.
It’s the disease. Sure. But I’m so run down and exhausted….
Tell me; will MW be better off were I dead? Well, why or why
not?
It’s becoming academic now anyway. I’m such a… an alcoholic.
I’m sick. I’m short of breath. Most nights I wake up at 3 or 4 in the morning –
my heart hammering like a psychotic metronome. I feel it cracking in my chest.
My entire body slick with sweat. And I hope, oh God, don’t let morning come….
It’s a race to the grave and we’re in the final stretch.
But I’m going to break that ribbon. I just feel it.
Then things will be better. For both of us.
