With How Sad Steps, O Moon, Thou Climb'st The Skies

 Entry 1     9:56 a.m.

That Jenny is dying and having an affair and refusing to stop (or now even acknowledge or admit it), and is angry that I have facts that contradict her claims and her lies, but has no real contrition for the behavior, these are all hard things.  It is tough enough to have to deal with just those things. That she alternates between denial and acceptance is understandable, most of us would likely be there--I can't see any reason I wouldn't be wrestling with that every day.  But the madness of the illness and naked manipulation that she uses in an attempt to ply compliance to her demands is, well, remarkable. It is shameless.  

Just after she returned from the hospital, one night at bedtime, she was wracked with pain. It was the kind of pain that makes you act like someone has run an andiron through your right eye and prodded it out your left ear. She had had her regular pain meds, we had worked through the rescue pain meds, a process designed by the palliative folks. When I came to give her the second drug in the regimen, she was practically writhing in agony, the pain on her left side uncontrolled. I crawled into bed with her and held her, trying to abate the misery. I stayed a long time, until the dilaudid kicked in and she was somnambulant, more drugged than asleep but close.  She was very pleased about this cuddling.  Now, if you don't know, I don't do this, have probably cuddled her 3x in 16 months--the first month I didn't know she was having an affair, and obviously had no idea she would refuse to stop it.  But after discovering the affair, and after she refused to stop the affair, I on the advice of my therapist,  shifted my role. I was to go from being her husband to being her caregiver for the sake of my sanity.  She tried a million ways to cajole me not to do this.  She would complain about it in tandem therapy--that therapist rejecting her complaints and explaining she was making choices and I needed to protect myself.  For her, however, it isn't enough that I am providing her with compassionate care--I am truly as kind as I can be to her--she needs to have me in full compliance. So, two days ago, she started texting me demanding I cuddle her. If you read yesterday's entry, you know that I ignored that demand by pretending to be asleep and then actually going to bed. It would only have led to conflict had I responded to her. She wasn't done.

Around 11:15, she texts, "Pain! Pain! Pain! Pain! Pain!" I responded asking her if she wanted pain meds--she hadn't complained of pain at all yesterday prior to this. She declined additional medicine, but then began asking me to come cuddle her so she could sleep. I politely declined. Then the invective began. I won't bore you with the details, they are always the same. But, I met each accusation, each utterance of calumny, with calm. This only seemed to enrage her more. I will tell you that she said, "You told me that when I was dying you would cuddle me."  I did tell her that. I will cuddle her then. She isn't actively dying now. Her pleadings and insinuations went on and on. She impliedly blamed me for her affair, which she has done explicitly and implicitly since I found out about it I'm September 2020. She praised the Geoff I am now versus the Geoff I was 6 months ago. I told her I hadn't changed my treatment of her during that time--I haven't.  She suggested I need a new therapist, I explained my current therapist is why I am still here and why she doesn't see, or perhaps I should say rarely sees from me, any of the anger about the affair she used to see.  

At the end of the text thread, instead of saying goodnight, she said goodbye. I didn't rise to the bait.  

This morning, it started all over again, without any introductory remarks. But now the anger was threefold greater. She told me I am not cuddling her--well she said, "not giving me what I need" because of my anger. If true, that would be understandable, n’est-ce pas? And maybe it is a little true. But if I am to stay here I have to actively distance myself from the relationship we no longer have. She wants me to pretend it isn't happening, or if I find out it is happening again, pretend to believe her lies explaining it away.  That's how her dad and mom played it I am guessing, with his myriad affairs.  

I am sad for her. She is making terrible choices and will just continue to do so. All I can do is care for her, try to do everything within my power to abate the pain that she has, while subsuming my own.  I have to continue to do what I need to protect myself, despite her vigorous protestations, and I will. Love is really action more than words. If I didn't understand it before, today, I really understand that very clearly now. 

Entry 2     12:19 p.m. 

Juxtaposition

Jenny was in bed, depressed, until after 11. I was in a Zoom meeting, the girls asleep, Jeanne downstairs--its her appointed day to help Jenny--and Jonny our house cleaner was cleaning upstairs. I heard Jenny sobbing-the kind of sobbing you hear when someone has learned they just lost a parent or child. I thought Jeanne was with her. The crying went on. I could hear it over Jonny's vacuum at times. After a few minutes of this, I left my meeting, and went to her. I came into the room, her thin frame blocking the view of the Duwamish, her body shaking as she cried uncontrollably. "I don't want to die," she said, tears streaming down her face. I sat next to her on the bed and held her, offering words meant to comfort, but largely useless.  She could not stop crying.  After a few minutes, I let go, and told her we needed to get her dressed. The shower had been running, she had managed at some point to get there and turn the water on and get back to her bed. So, I asked her if she still wanted to shower, and when she said yes, I led her into the shower as she continued to cry.  As we entered the bathroom, she saw her frail form inside the frameless mirror, and wailed even louder. She showered for less than 10 minutes, sitting on the shower chair that I put in the shower stall a week or so ago. Jonny told me, while Jenny was taking a shower, that he was going to go upstairs and clean the bathroom and make my bed. He was asking, without asking, what should he do about Jenny's room and the master bath. So, I went upstairs. She was still on the shower chair, still crying. I got her out, got her clothes, helped her dress. She could not stand for very long, and I kept having her sit on the edge of the tub. Dressed, she went downstairs on her butt, still crying.  I got her to the sofa, got her meds. Jeanne brought her the smoothie she made for her. Jenny began to recover. I sat on the couch near her, but not directly next to her.  We began talking about other things to get death off of her mind--schools, COVID-19, not going to the movies anymore.  And then, I went upstairs to return to work.

Not five minutes later, they were out the door, Jeanne and Jenny. The person who could barely function, rushing out the door. Weird. Two minutes later, I called her to find out if she had paid Jonny (our house cleaner), because I check every week to make sure, and she volunteered that they were going to the walker store on Stone Way, but she was not going to buy a walker today.  She. Is. The. Worst. Liar. It is what it is. Only one thing gets her moving like that. If she comes back with a walker today, I will eat my words, but I wager either lunch or el pinché's planning period is now. What do you do with this?  So, I will comfort her when she is truly down, as she was above, and maintain my distance to protect myself. But this is schizophrenic, and I have to deal with this contrast every day, sometimes minute to minute.