My husband’s brain is eating itself. It’s slowly chipping away at the insulation keeping his neurons functioning sweetly and his brain humming. Most days, it is, a side from a memory lapse or four and his hours long naps, it’s easy to forget. But then, there are days like today.
I’m not home. Hank and I are off teaching each other how to train humans and dogs. Each skill we master feeds us.
Honey is there, and Bubbles and Squeak are whistling in their cage, as they undoubtedly dig into a glorious green salad. I am here. He’s there.
Yesterday, his vision greyed out. Today, it is still grey. The on-call neurologist thinks it’s likely some sort of brain issue not an eye issue. Steroids won’t help.
It’s another nail in the coffin of who Dan was. No more dreams of flying, maybe no more driving, maybe no more woodworking or tinkering. How does one even go about facing that type of loss. How does one go on when everything you are is stripped down and you are laid bare?
My cancers were different. I either made it, or after a period of increasing disability, I didn’t. My husband’s disorder is like a daily death...slowly, inexplicably, and inexorably, he becomes someone we don’t recognize.
How do you move on? How do I even help? All I can say is, “I’m sorry.” “We’ll get through this.” Cold comfort. I can’t give him back his dreams of flying. From here, I can’t even help him find new dreams.
It’s like we live at the bottom of a well. The rope that lowers the pail just broke. Trapped, we wait. We'll think of something, right?
