Soy Un Perdedor

You can't write if you can't relate
Trade the cash for the beef for the body for the hate
And my time is a piece of wax falling on a termite
That's choking on the splinters
--from Loser by Beck

I wanted to avoid madness.  The days have been so calm.  But it wasn't to be.  Monday evening was nothing special.  Just Jenny, Abby and me doing our evening routines. Jenny surfing Facebook and texting with the pinché motherfucker, Abby writing songs and playing her guitar in her room, and me my head in the clouds, thinking all was quiet on the western front.  It wasn't to be.  Jenny, sitting in a corner of the sectional, said to me, "I just want to warn you I think I'm going to have a breakdown."  I didn't move to comfort her, although she made it clear she was on the knife's edge.  I'm not sure why I didn't move to comfort her. No matter, I just didn't.  

She began to cry, a deep inconsolable cry, tired of living with a terminal illness. She stood
and walked to the kitchen, then to the dining room, where she stood in front of the table. I finally got off my ass and went to try and quell the pain.  I said some words, feckless utterances that placated neither of us.  She said she was going to go somewhere to scream, walked to where we keep the keys, grabbed her keys, and opened the door to go to her car.  I offered to go with her, but she said, through sobs, that she didn't want company.  She was going to go find a place by the water to scream.  I put my shoes on and my vest, and followed her out the door.  She was in the car, doors closed, windows up, screaming.  I could hear her from the porch. It was guttural, primal.  Over and over, she screamed, anger pouring out of her, rage at the impotence of all her plans.

I opened the front passenger door and again asked if she wanted me to go with her---she said no.  I then asked her to turn her car on so that people didn't hear her screaming and call the police.  She was genuinely surprised that she could be heard, and turned the car on. I got out of the car, closed the door and called her sister, who didn't answer. I then went back in the house and turned around to find the car was gone.  

She texted me a few minutes later, asking where she should go to scream. I suggested the UW Stadium parking lot.  It's huge. It's empty, and she would be able to scream to her heart's content.  She said she would take my advice.

Moni called me back some few minutes later, I gave her the 4-1-1, and she called Jenny.  Meanwhile, Jenny and I were texting.  I suggested she come get me and we could go get ice cream and watch Search Party on HBO (sooooo good).  It does seem to be a cure all.  She agreed, and 20 minutes later I was in the passenger seat heading to Safeway with her, where we bought two high end pints and whipped cream, and headed home.
We followed through with the plan, and watched a couple episodes of Search Party. Jenny then took her meds and prepared for bed.  She kissed me on the forehead, nonplussed that I didn't try and kiss her back.  She thanked me several times for taking such good care of her, and left. A few minutes later, after she had retired for bed, I went into her bedroom to retrieve my pillows and pajamas.  I suggested, or rather complained about and suggested that the mattress pad between my side of the bed and the wall be tossed.  I have to walk on it to get to my nightstand, my pillows, really anything I need over there, which is annoying.  

As I turn to leave, she asks me to close the blinds nearest me, and I do.  I am taking steps toward the door as she says to my back, "I am going to take that mattress pad and begin sleeping downstairs, so you can sleep in the bed." I say that I am quite content on the couch and have no intention of sleeping on the--super ridiculously comfy mattress that was probably made by elves and stuffed with baby hair--bed.  Jenny then tells me that she is concerned about me sleeping on the couch and the effect it has on the family.  [So, to be clear, I don't sleep in the raw, but in sweats or pajamas. Moreover, I arise before anyone else wakes up, and neither kid gives a flying fuck where I sleep, as long as I am home.] I wheel around and almost take the bait, almost say something that would renew the the war of words over her ongoing affair, but never swallow the hook. Instead, I censor myself, and say, "There are other things much greater to worry about which may have a negative effect on the kids, rather than my sleeping on the couch.  I am going to keep sleeping on the couch."  I walk out of the room, not angry, but flustered.

What am I supposed to do  with this?  Snark, my first language, rested on my tongue like a well-savored candy.  But, I swallowed the urge to point out that this isn't a situation I created, nor am I having an affair that I refuse to end.  And again, she is dying, which makes her intransigence hurt not just her, but also me. In fact, its a pain more awful than I thought I could bear. 

Suffering is the human condition, and I am not sleeping in a box on the sidewalk somewhere, nor dying of pancreatic cancer, so let's keep perspective here. But, I would be lying if I said I am not tired of ceaselessly eating this shit sandwich every single day.  What's more, I feel sorry for her. I do. It isn't so much that I would go all Sir Walter Raleigh's cloak on her, and lay down in a puddle so she could walk over me, but nevertheless, this whole ordeal is heart renderingly awful.

Finally, let me say, after all of this exposition, that she stayed up, an hour or so after the last interaction, stomped into the kitchen angry, her glowering presence making her unhappiness known without speaking a word.