Everybody I Meet Seems To Be A Rank Stranger

Rank Stranger

Sigh.  Honestly, the headache and my tinnitus might have decided to summer in Seattle, and to do so a little early. Otherwise, I am an extravaganza of excellence.  

Last night in therapy we talked about our fears. It was an ice breaker for cohabitating but estranged partners, kind of a therapy party game.  It was a helluva lot better than discussing the relationship.  We have formally shifted to talking about grief, death, and fear, the trifecta of shite, as I refer to it--generally under my breath. 

There was never a time that therapy was intended to save the relationship.  I am, if should the day arise, leaving.  That is my preferred outcome.  That I have made clear multiple times in therapy, although I would concede no one can tell the future. I believe mine does not lay in remaining married to a person who has wronged me so intently and intensely. Despite that, it kept feeling like we were slip sliding into that discussion.  I tried to course correct several times, until my individual therapist took me to task for attending these sessions, if they were for anything other than dealing with the cancer and its impact on the family.

We each had 5 uninterrupted minutes to tell each other our fears.  No interrupting, no trying to fix it for the other person. I only broke my rule about keeping all the relationship shit in the box once, when I mentioned I am afraid that if Jenny is dying she will ask for Eric the pinché motherfucker.  It's a legit concern. I'm not going to obsess over it, but it needed to be said.  It was a safe exercise to raise the issue, because one of the rules of the fear exercise is the listening party didn't get to respond, just listen to the bundle of fear each of us has.  So, I knew I couldn't be gaslighted, gaslit, lied to by her.  I know that even now her plan, should she survive this, is to be with Eric, the pinché motherfucker. I know she would lie about it. What kind of life is this?  I don't understand life at all at this point. My wife is dying and my sole focus is the family. Her sole focus isn't.  I get the irrationality, I do. But, it is just hard.

Our fears are similar, except hers deal with her dying, which makes her fear orders of magnitude more palpable than mine, and mine are almost manifest, almost corporeal at this point.  I have known many

Angst

terminally ill people, and have had dear friends who were terminally ill.  Still, this clarifies much, makes it clear how important love is to get through the day.  If I didn't have my daughters and my friends, I don't even know I would be here right now.  

It's quiet in the house like it hasn't been in recent memory.  I am alone, immersed in my thoughts.  When will normal come again, and who will I be anymore when we have achieved a steady state?

Jenny called me while with Kim, waiting to be seated at the Twin Peaks Cafe in North Bend. They had been out at Gold Creek snowshoeing. She called, and while acknowledging she was breaking the rules from last night's session, she told me that if she dies, she will want me by her side.  "I love Eric the pinche motherfucker," she offered, "but not like that. .  . I'm not going to die, but if I do, I want you by my side."  My intonation in

responding sounded skeptical, annoyed and probably came across like, "whatever." I simply offered an "uh-huh" as I gray-rocked my way through it. That was my intent. I am not playing the part of Charlie Brown anymore. I won't talk about the football, and certainly won't put myself in a place where I fall on my ass because I trust anything she says about Eric the football the pinché motherfucker.  Ever.

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