clickmom

Sitters

(Typed on my phone. Sorry in advance for the typos) 

so. The other day I had to use a public restroom. It was the kind of store that has two individual private gender anybody bathrooms. So, yay for the private bathroom.  I stood in the hall anxiously waiting for one or both of the occupants to leave. The best case scenario would have been for both doors to simultaneously swing open so I can quickly profile the occupants. It is a stander? That’s bad potential for a raised toilet seat and even sometimes a mysteriously wet and raised toilet seat. But worse than a stander would be a squatter. Dear lord. Save my generation from the squatters.  They’re gross enough historically but now they’ve got bad knees and can’t even manage to hover close to the hole to keep things sanitary. No, these days the ancients just spread their legs and let loose like a tsunami of lunch’s never ending refills of diner coffee. God bless the sitters, the wise ones who know you won’t get back of leg cooties if you find a dry seat and take it.

as bad luck would have it only one door opened. A quick glance at the occupants shouted squatter. I entered the private loo. Suspicion confirmed. It was a sight to behold. Like a battle field of incontinent soldiers, I made my way to the toilet paper holder with the ultimate dilemma weighing heavily on my mind. Wipe with massive amounts of paper or become my own squatter. 

understated

I try not to write too much about the husband out of respect for him. But then, you know, I’m pretty much a care giver these days so it doesn’t leave much to write about. 

One doctor is trying to jiggle around some meds to help the husband partake in life more. So the husband is taking speed, effectively.  And it is definitely doing something. He tries to be chattier. And he tries to offer something to a conversation he might overhear.  He even wants to do things. Despite his pretty significant level of handicapped-edness. And, if  I didn’t come to the table with so much baggage (soooooo much)  I could sit back and enjoy some of the changes. But I do you come to the table with a tremendous amount of baggage a lot of which can be called....ahem..... resentment (cough cough) and I am not handling this time very well. 

That might be an understatement 

 

no examples

So, the husband does not often say nice things to me. There. I admitted it. I married a guy who doesn't ever say things like You look nice today or really anything else that would be kind or flattering. Except, in his latest version. he is starting to say things like Wow, dinner was great, how did you prepare the fish? and to be honest I find it so freaking confusing when he is being "nice" that I just stare at him with my mouth hanging open. 

However, in the latest reinvention of him, thanks to that behavioral variant of dementia, he says kind things (see above regarding tonight's salmon dinner) and I want to share with you one of the nice things he said this week.

But first, let me tell you how the school days go around here. Typically I wake around 6:15 and so does Josh. We each get ready and I go downstairs around 6:35, put some water up to boil, take sweet pea outside, pop a bagel, in the toaster, Josh comes down and eats and leaves for school. I follow soon after, taking sweet pea to the woods, maybe stopping at the grocery store, pharmacy or bank and then I return around 11ish, eat my own breakfast and then some time after noon and as late as 3 the husband hauls his half dead self out of bed and comes tripping down the hall. He tosses his weight into a club chair and either sticks his face into his iPad or turns on the TV.  Then he'll tell me anything he managed to pick up, like how he was awake at 7:30 because he heard me leave or he was awake because he knew that I asked Josh if he wanted tea or coffee and I tell him it doesn't count as awake if he fell back to sleep for another 5 hours. The point is, I have a busy morning before the husband ever even knocks the sleep out of his eyes almost every day. 

But, the past few days he's been getting up a bit earlier, like 10:30 or 11 and this coincides with me returning from the morning outing. The other day he commented that when I come in with sweet pea I am always singing a happy little song to her and it makes him happy. Folks. Not only did he say something nice to me but he called himself happy!  It took brain rot for this man to feel happiness? I'm just in shock. Also, if he hadn't said that to me and you had asked me how he felt hearing me sing to the dog every day I would have guessed that it drove him insane and probably caused a hormonal imbalance in him or something. Happy? Never in a million years did I see that one coming. 

I could go on for another 17 inches about how conflicted I am that I cannot seem to just enjoy the changes which are an improvement, but instead am suspicious and resentful that this kinder gentler person was living inside the angry and cold guy I've lived with for so long. But I won't. I just wanted to tell you that it is there. I'm sure you don't need examples.