The final three years of my marriage left me in the role of caregiver. It is a very different role than the one you sign up for at the altar. Richer/poorer yeah, we started poorer so could only hope for better, and if not, well, it wasn't really a lifestyle change. Sickness/health, that was the rub. I was well aware of health issues, I mean we had a millennial wedding in Philadelphia to celebrate 2000. It happened when I finally had a job that provided decent health insurance. We were married quickly with minimal costs simply to get my wife covered and begin the (nightmarish) process of finding a proper doctor (which is a separate and lengthy bitch).

You pick a spouse based on your compatibility (at least I did, I don't want to speak for others). We got on well. We enjoyed similar distractions (playing pool, darts, drinking, hiking, philosophy). We had great times together. I wouldn't trade those moments for anything.

I wasn't unaware of her health. It was a focus. It had to be, or I had to run. Those were the options. I don't want to bad mouth anyone who runs. I get why you would. It's a hard and heavy load if you don't. Backing down isn't really in my genetic makeup, or maybe in my upbringing. I don't know and this isn't the time or place for the discussion. Simply said, I don't walk away because something becomes inconvenient.

She had at least one (and medical science being imperfect (as are all sciences to be honest) possibly several) autoimmune diseases (lupus or sjogrens (if you want to research)). They became increasingly debilitating as she aged. Motherhood was also probably a contributing factor (I have nothing but respect for mothers, the toll that takes on the body is amazing in even the best case, and some of you do it several times, this is why women will always be the stronger sex in my humble opinion). The changes it took on her body were readily observable.

She began to hate her health which became herself. It was tragic and will probably haunt me until I take my last breath.

It was a long time from when we met until when she died. Thirty-one years. I'm not even sure if the time is relevant to this rant, but there you go. That's how long it was.

I'm not trying to complain about any of it. Everyone has shit they go through. Mine is no more important or different than a thousand other stories. The point is the change from spouse to caregiver. Which again, isn't unique to me, but is the focus of the story.

When you are a companion, you focus on shared experience. You can see a movie or eat out at a restaurant or go for a stroll. The actual experience doesn't matter, it's having someone to share it with that matters. It becomes second nature to experience anything with another. You develop a rapport that no one else understands. You have your own secret language. It's a beautiful, personal experience that (at least to my knowledge) does not exist outside of the experience. Any long term couple knows WTF I am talking about, and if you don't, I greatly encourage you to discover it, because the heartbreak that exists when it ends does not counteract the joy of experiencing it. Bonds are beautiful. H2 is amazing by itself.

The shift to caregiver (at least in my case) was gradual. She couldn't drive anymore. Not really a big deal since we traveled everywhere together. It simply meant I was the only driver. We couldn't be physical anymore. It wasn't great news, but I never chased her because I wanted to be laid, I loved her mind. The fact that we could still have coffee and conversation really filled my day (and let's be honest, I learned the art of self-pleasure as a teen, so not really a problem). We couldn't share a bed anymore. That was another adjustment, but I could still deal with it (that fact has probably helped me adjust in the widower stage that I am currently in). Everything becomes routine. I wake up. I check on her and see if she needs anything. I go to work for a bit (I found my job for its flexibility so I could work from home as needed and still take care of my wife). We had the ritual of coffee and brunch and dinner. Even though we had a whole bunch of doctors to see during the week, we managed to make time to be together. When I was at work, she would scour the internet for interesting things and share them with me when I took a break. I miss that, a lot.

Eventually, everything else faded away. I fed her. I took her to appointments. I helped her bathe and change and whatever else was needed. I wasn't a companion. I was her assistant to help her through the day. Her needs became greater. I worked. I helped. I worked. I helped. It was a hellscape. At the end, I was getting up every two hours. She couldn't roll over on her own. She couldn't use the bathroom without assistance. I began praying for death. Every waking moment. Hers or mine, it didn't matter. Until I realized my daughter would be better off with me alive, since I was the sole provider and everything. So I prayed for her death. I FUCKING PRAYED FOR MY WIFE TO DIE. How do I live with myself now? My daughter is the only reason I'm not dancing at the end of a gallows or chewing on the muzzle of a gun.

A good writer writes toward truth and pain. There you go. I can't get more honest than that.

This is a long way around the block to talk about a plant.

My wife dies. I watch. It was horrible. Some day I will write that out, probably two days after I visit the ocean again.

After it all, I wrangle together a memorial service. It's been three months and I can barely get through a day, I don't even understand how I managed to call a bar and reserve a room. It's like being blackout drunk, but finding things that remind you of what happened.

The service was fantastic. My wife was a special person and was well loved by a great bunch of people. It was healing and cathartic (but grief is a pain in the ass and will fuck with you any chance it gets). My real family (friends I've made on this journey) showed up in droves and gave me great comfort and support.

Which leads me to the point of this rant. The succulent. Someone left me a succulent, up next to the pictures I printed and my daughter glued to a poster-board. I don't know the thought process behind such a gift, and I found it was left by my sister-in-law with whom I don't generally agree on much.

I found it insulting on so many levels. I mean, I know my emotions are raw (even now, three months later, certainly then, a month after the fact). It was a kick to the balls to me. Like, "Hey, I know you just failed at being a caregiver and your charge, that meant the world to you died, but here's a succulent that doesn't need much care. Maybe you can get your confidence back."

Don't do this. That's my only advice.

MIND: Don’t do it.

ME: But he asked me about my writing which is essentially asking about ME, so…

MIND: He, just like your reader, does NOT need to know every single thing about you. You have this bad habit-- you tend to divulge way too much too soon. Retaining some mystery is a good thing, trust me.

ME: I’m an open book.

MIND: And not a very good one, honestly. Mediocre at best. Entirely, way too much, over-the-top hyperbole. Sloppy form. Typoes. Enough tired cliché to choke a horse. Anyone with literary chops that reads you winces. You try too hard.

ME: It's called being earnest.

MIND: This is you: ‘please clap’.

ME: Stop.

MIND: You stop.

ME: “I love to write about feelings. I mean, I really FEEL feelings deeply, so I write about them. Mostly deep things about deep feelings… Sometimes feelings just well up within me and I have to let them out in a poem. Ohh, and I love to write about nature, too. Nature is so beautiful and makes me feel free so yeah, I write about that also.”

MIND: Holy shit. You really are a real boner killer.

DATE: *fidgets intensely with phone*

MIND: Evasive maneuvers deployed *face palm*

DATE: “Shit. I’m so sorry, I gotta take this call…” *promptly slides out of booth*

MIND: Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got a runner!

ME: Wait—no. You’re wrong, Mind.

MIND: You do realize there was no phone call, right?

Many minutes pass…

ME: He’s not coming back, is he?

MIND: Nope.

ME: I’m going to remain alone for the rest of my days, aren’t I?

MIND: Now dear, don’t you worry. There’s sure to be other guys out there who like girls that write plodding, banal rubbish about their feelings.

Also, on a completely unrelated note: let’s swing by the shelter to check out those cats for adoption.

A lone duck sits on a pond.

Clouds drift by in the sky.

Tall trees shade the ground.

A warm wind blows in from the west.

Far off smoke turns the day to night.

The duck swims calm laps.

The heat moves in fast.

White ash falls on the pond.

The duck stays.

Once far off smoke is now a close up blaze.

Tree limbs crack and crash on the ground.

The flames eat all.

The air is thick and dense with smog.

Still, the duck stays.

Bright flames dance in the duck's eyes.

The pond is now a deep blue spot in a ring of red.

The duck is a speck at the core of it all.

The fish look up from the waste on the pond's floor;

they wish for the duck's wings.

They think:

Why does the duck stay?

They don't see the wound.

Not all ducks can fly.

"Speak plain," she says with a point at the chair next to her. I nod and sit.

"They sent me to ask."

"I know."

"Well?"

"Well, what? I ain't got all day."

"You know why I'm here."

"Don't mean you're off the hook. Say yer piece."

She's near blind and as old as the sea pines that sway next to her porch. I can hear waves crash just out of sight. The gray boards of her old shack hang on to flecks of white paint. There's a glass of sweet tea that sweats in her hand.

I pause, watch the beads, catch my breath.

She waits, and a grin tugs at lips that have not known teeth since Bill lied and a girl kept her dress.

Her skin was once dark as the night, but it is a deep shade of gray now. She's sick, old, and rough.

I hate what must be done.

"Go on, boy. You know my pa built this place when beach life was hard. Not one white man would live here back then. We ain't had no lights. No john. Just that shit shack, there." She points to a place that used to be, but was now just sea grass. "Tell me what your ma is too 'fraid to say."

"It's time to sell, Great Nan. Live with us."

"How much them men say this time?"

"More than we can spend."

"No. Here is mine. Here is where I will live. Home is where I will die."

I sigh.

She takes her last sip of sweet tea as I reach in my bag.

I watch the sweat drip from the glass and land on the floor as I stand and walk to her chair.

She looks up at me, and I swear I see a smirk as the clear bag wraps her head.

It's more than we can spend, but I will do my best.

I write about people. People in the projects. People in trailer parks. People who haven't worked a day in their life and people who work 18 hours a day 6 days a week to keep their lights. People of color who have more normalcy and depth than the media depicts. People who hustle until the sun greets them and people who are so stuck in their sorrow they haven't seen the sun in weeks. People who prevail. People who were dealt a bad hand and still found a way.

Oh. Okay.

Most people don’t ask me that. They just kinda say “that’s cool” and move on.

Alright, so…I like, like a lot of different stuff. I’m a Gemini, so I’ve got my hands in a little bit of everything but uh, yeah…

Poetry is my first love. But it’s honestly not my strength. I’m working on a few novels that have a lot to do with like, mental health and breaking cycles, generational patterns, stuff like that. They’re kind based on my experiences but also not really. Oh, and I really dig horror and sci-fi so I’ve got some stuff for that, too. I have this whole 5-10-15 plan as to when and where I’m gonna put stuff out.

Yeah, years.

I’m not all that patient but I am kinda methodical so I think it balances itself out. I know fifteen years is a long time but I’ve been at this for like a decade already, so it’s whatever, honestly.

Oh, and I have a lot of creative non-fiction and some essays but I have no freaking clue what to do with any of that…maybe start a blog or something?

What do you mean, “what’s my vibe?”

I guess like…kinda reflective and flowery but also a little dark with this “who hurt you” tone. I try not to be too depressing. I’m secretly a huge optimist, but don’t tell anyone- moody and mysterious is kinda my brand-

Seriously? Right here at the table?

I thought this was a date, not an open mic…okay, lemme get my phone.

One sec.

Okay, this is a piece I wrote for this website called Prose…now, it hasn’t gotten a lot of traction but this one writer I really admire liked and reposted it and honestly that’s good enough for me…

Sure. I’d love one. Whiskey ginger, no ice with a lime.

Yes. I know. It’s an old man drink.

Ooh, hurry back. Just found the post.

I feel like a part of me is missing since I lost my son. I know I'm not supposed to blame myself, but I can't help it. It's like a chunk of my heart was broken off, and every time I see something that reminds me of him it chips away at the edges of where that chunk once was. I can't enjoy the park, my wife and I are separating, and I can't stand to look at pictures of us together.

I can barely hold the pistol in my hand.

You know that state of feeling broken?

Breathing and living but something seems wrong and you're not exactly sure what?

Thinking you should probably ask for help but you're not sure there's a person on Earth who can understand or know how to assist?

Not wanting to worry others...?

or bother them...?

or burden them...?

You're too empathetic, perhaps.

Feeling feelings when you'd rather not?

Too weak to ignore the voices?

The pulling?

The heart aching?

Muttering 'Help me' to God every other second of the day?

You want to be okay...

You just want to be okay...

So you smile.

You stay kind.

You keep worries in the back of your mind.

But they try to escape.

And, eventually, they do get out, don't they?

They hack their way straight through your heart, leaving you

...broken...

But you don't want to be broken, do you?

You're thankful for God's blessings big and small, right?

You know that, in the end, it will all work out.

It'll all be good.

So you keep going?

Keep pushing?

Keep helping?

Keep loving?

Keep growing?

Keep floating?

Keep holding together on the outside though, on the inside, you're broken?

No?

Oh.

...maybe it's just me.

:)

The color aquamarine

A child who asked “will you hold my hand”

Hot chocolate

My 97-year-old mother

The song ‘Unforgettable’