The Succulent

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.