Sunday, December 10, 2017

Tomorrow

Carol goes back to work tomorrow.

Part time. 10 to 2 for the rest of the year. I wish with all my heart she never had to work another day in her life.

Of course it had to fucking snow. I shoveled like a motherfucker. I put sand down everywhere I could.

But I am working all goddamn day. I'll be here when she leaves, so I can pull the car around, help her negotiate the fucking snow.

I will NOT be here at 2:30 when she gets home. Son of a fucking bitch.

I told her not to stop and get the mail; just drive in and get in the house safely.

My heart breaks and it breaks and it breaks.

Carol has said more than once that she looks stupid with a droopy face. That she is self conscious about her speech.

If I had any brains at all I would have made a lot more money in life and she wouldn't have to deal with this.

She is sleeping on the couch right now. She gets tired.

I don't know how tomorrow will affect her.

Son of a fucking bitch.

Friday, December 8, 2017

December 8

Happy Birthday, Gregg Allman. I miss you as if you were a member of my own family.

Happy Birthday, Jim Morrison. I always worshipped your insanity and your deeply informed creativity.

Mark David Chapman. I hope somebody slips razor blades into your next meal and you die the most painful death imaginable.

Thursday, December 7, 2017

! (?)

You can lose the weight and regain the dignity

You can earn money on the side doing what you love, and make your life easier (if you try)

You can awaken and elevate your brain power to the place it ought to be; you can be smart

You can make your life your own; it is not too late


Painful Fucking Truths, Baby

And on the brave and crazy wings of youth
They went flying around in the rain
And their feathers, once so fine, grew torn and tattered
And in the end they traded their tired wings
For the resignation that living brings



"Before The Deluge", Jackson Browne

Wednesday, December 6, 2017

Shitting My Pants

Last week Carol drove for the first time since the brain operation.

Had to register her car and drop it off for inspection.

I followed in my car. I literally edged towards the side of the road a couple of times because I was watching her car like a hawk instead of focusing on my own driving.

As if I was fucking Superman. Like if her car suddenly swerved I would be able to fly out the driver's side window of my own car and rescue her, and make it back to my car before it rolled off the road.

I was shitting bricks.

I am shitting bricks for next week too. Emotional bricks.

We have yet another follow up appointment at Dartmouth-Hitchcock this Friday, where we expect the Doc to give Carol a thumbs up for going back to work, part time.

She can handle it. I think she is ready. Except we both thought her speech would be back to normal by then.

It is not. It is not even close.

It breaks my heart that she will have to deal with that. And although she is not as emotional as I am, I have to believe it will bother her.

She has to keep on dealing with hard things. She doesn't deserve this.

When we talk at home, it breaks my heart every time. I know how frustrated she is about the lack of progress. I hate to see her this way, I hate to watch her have to deal with it.

Her first day back will be just one more day in this process when I will think about her obsessively. Worry about her.

I want my wife back.

I want her to be happy.

A Noble Goal

Just worked 7 days in a row.

Can't complain. I was covering for a co-worker who's husband had a serious operation. Just as she did for me when Carol went through her own private hell.

But I am tired. And very much on edge. Have been for a while, for obvious reasons.

My goal for today is to not leave the house. For any reason.

If the house catches on fire I would assist Carol to safety and then walk right back in through the door.

That's just the way it is.






A Durable Quote

Pulp Fiction.

Marsellus Wallace gets raped by Zed while The Gimp keeps an eye on Butch. Eventually Butch breaks fee, kills The Gimp, and rescues Marsellus.

Butch asks Marsellus "Are you OK?"

Marsellus responds "No. I'm pretty fucking far from OK."

That's how Carol feels.

That's how I feel.

We are pretty fucking far from OK.



But we are working on it.