8.5: Is there even a glass?

Despite the intolerable bitch in me that leaps forth with such vitriol when I am driving in proximity to inept vehicle operators, or am “inconvenienced” by the antics of rude or loud humans, or annoyed by the lack of humanity I see on a day to day basis, I am a “glass half full” kind of gal. I am open to the positiveness of ethos. I look for silver linings. I point out the magical nature of how small the world really is, and I delight in connecting my life to others. 

And yet, as a very in-love spouse to a man who, at the ripe old age of 61, has been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, my glass is not half full. My glass is not half empty. My glass is shattered and lying in pieces at my feet.

On more than one occasion during this lifetime, I have been politely or even annoyedly reminded that “it” is not all about me. My parenting days of being “Worst Case Scenario Girl” are real…it’s a wonder that my children were not kidnapped, buried alive, or spontaneously abducted by aliens. My worries go beyond these few examples extending to mental paralysis when a family member’s tardiness of three minutes elicits fears of a car wrapped around a tree, a plane trip creates worries of death by aviation disaster the likes of the still missing Malaysian Airlines 370, and a jerky elevator doesn’t mean that the doors will not open ever again and that I will not live out my final days scraping my nails against a polycarbonate door, praying to my god to let me see the light of day once again. So, safe to say, I come by my irrational fears through practicing my craft with diligence and over the course of many, many years.

So when your husband is given a death sentence, how do you take your fears beyond that? How do I embellish the worst possible thing I can imagine for a man who won my heart through humor, wit, puns, and exasperatingly ridiculous expressions of silliness. How do I manage my life when he has always had the ability to read my mind, to know me better than I know myself, to anticipate my needs and take joy in filling them, who makes me braver than I ever knew possible and expanded my worldview beyond the confines of my safe and beautiful life as a New Englander? 

I can’t. I just can’t. I can’t see this for him. I can’t wrap my brain around him slowly dissolving away to a shell of the man who has brought such wonder to my life. I can’t go there. 

I watch Sean write his blogs with such determination, peacefulness, and purpose. His writing has given him focus and meaning, and beyond that it has given him hope. He has agency and voice, he wants to help others by his words, he wants his attitude and fortitude to reach the masses, and he wishes to leave a mark, to have been known, and to have made a difference.  

I would just like to survive this. 

I want to be more…for him, for me. I want his hope to seep out of his pores and cover me in peacefulness as we lie cuddled in bed together each night. I want his hope to fill me up from within and overflow like warm honey dripping down, and yet, while my level of acceptance seems to flow in direct parallel with Sean’s mood, I feel such dread and sorrow. I’m not sure that Alzheimer’s lets you feel more than that. 

So, for right now, at this early stage, I just can’t. I will. I will rise, I am strong. But for today…I just can’t.