47

 

David comes home to find me soaking in the Jacuzzi tub with tears running down my face. Marcy is with Dad, and I had asked her to give me a couple of hours to myself.

Now David is intruding on my time and space, and I have no desire to share what I’m feeling. I need to wallow in my gloominess all by myself.

So when he asks me what’s wrong, I hold up a bubble-covered hand and say, “Out. Please, just get out. Close the door behind you. I’ll find you later.”

He looks dejected, but that’s his problem. I don’t want to deal with anyone’s feelings but my own.

I’m so weary of being responsible for others’ well-being. Dad, Nick, and even David are consuming me, morsel by morsel, even though it’s through no real fault of their own. I just feel sliced and diced and want to get back to being whole. I don’t know how or where to start, and I worry about not being able to put myself back together.

Oh, yes, I’m luckier than so many others, as I’ve often told myself. But I’m tired of being strong, of looking on the bright side, of holding on to hope, of pushing others to do their part in my plan for . . . for what?

Exactly what is my plan? Is it keeping Dad well and alive? He’s not well, and he won’t live. No matter what I do, no matter how much effort I put into it, that plan will fail. I will fail.

When I moved Dad here, I was so sure he had years left to enjoy being with us. He’d come so far. We’d come so far. We fought together to defy the one-year death sentence the surgeon had given after his broken-hip surgery. Dad never learned about that prognosis, and he believed, always believed, he was getting better. And for a while, he did. Or so it seemed. He had thrived and been happy at Crestview.

He’s been well tended here, with only the one UTI, which was quickly resolved. He has never had bed sores or skin breakdowns. He’s been fed and watered and medicated as well as possible. He’s gotten plenty of sunshine and had fun excursions. He’s enjoyed the company of family and friends and personal aides. He’s had physical therapy that benefited him and gave him the hope he could get “back to normal.”

Like David said, there is always going to be a new normal for Dad—and subsequently for us. But did it have to be so rapid and multi-faceted in its onslaught?

I add more hot water to the tub and reach for the glass of lovely Chardonnay I’d brought in with me. Along with the bubbly, herbal-scented hot water, it has a soothing effect on my wounded spirit. But none of these transitory luxuries is providing the emotional relief I hoped for. One afternoon of indulgence isn’t enough. I need a vacation, dammit. But that’s not possible.

I can take a day off though, have a full day to myself. And I’m going to do it.

 

 

Invigorated after my therapeutic bath, I find David in the kitchen. His back is to me when I say, “I need you to take tomorrow off from everything you have planned and take full responsibility for Dad for the entire day.”

He turns around quickly, startled by both my demand and my tone. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong is I’m worn out. I’m tired of thinking, worrying, and making decisions. I’m tired of being responsible for everyone who trods the floors of this house, whether it be on two legs, four legs, or in a wheelchair.” I’m wound up, and words of anger and frustration are flying, unfiltered. “Everyone always asks me what to do, how to do it, when to do it, whatever it is. I schedule, I manage, and I participate in every aspect of Dad’s care.”

David starts to speak, but I hold up my hand. “Please just let me finish,” I say, softening my demeanor a bit.

He crosses his arms over his chest and nods.

“I just need a day off. I need a day away from my responsibilities. I need you to take full control of everything for one full day, from morning until night.”

“Rachel, you don’t have to talk to me like that. You could have just asked me if I’d do what you’re asking instead of coming in here and jumping down my throat.”

He’s right. I take a deep and steadying breath. “I guess I envy you for getting to leave here for hours at a time. Sometimes for the whole day.”

“I’m working, Rachel.”

“I understand that. But tell me you haven’t driven out of this driveway and been glad to be making an escape?”

“I don’t look at it like that. I look at it like I’m busting my butt to keep a lot of balls in the air so we can maintain this lifestyle and still put some money away.”

I start crying. It’s the last outlet I have for my pent-up frustrations. I can’t take them all out on David. I need to talk to a professional. I need a support group, maybe one of those online groups I’ve joined just for mining information from the discussions. I need to express myself in a healthy way, not a harmful way.

David wraps me in his arms. He just holds me.

“I’m going to go get dressed.” I give him a quick kiss before pulling away. “So, will you please take total responsibility for Dad tomorrow?”

“Of course I will.”

“Thank you.”

And while I don’t doubt I would have gotten that same response if I’d approached him in a more diplomatic way, I have to say I feel better for having vented.

After all, for better or worse includes venting, doesn’t it?