And now, Ms. Cancer and Mr. Depression

How does one learn to reason with depression? I’d like to share with you a story about a confused partner who, after the passing of her arbitrary three-year deadline, falls into the rabbit hole and finds herself staring at a 40-car pile up and the unenviable clean up of the bloody aftermath. She unreasonably and unfortunately becomes inconsolable with wave after wave of false accusations hurled from across a house she lives in with this depressed man who she no longer knows, or even knows what she feels for him anymore.

Don’t take the bait. Walk away. Leave. For an hour, a week, or…

If it were only that easy. You know who you are – partners of the dysfunctional. But add a little metastatic cancer to the mix…my shoulders are killing me under the weight of it all. I’m sorry if I come across as confusing, but this whole crazy dysthymic depression without an end in sight is confusing.

I’ve finally helped him to treatment. We, well more like he, vomited the angry bitter disgust of a man who simply wanted to raise his two sons across a 2.5 hour session of exhausting couples counseling with my psychologist. She, by the way had breast cancer, can provide him with a helpful view from within should he inquire. He spilled tears and guts for 95% of the session, at the end of which I said he may be better off getting a bit of help for himself or I didn’t feel we’d make the progress we’d hoped for. He immediately went on the defense and the doctor came to mine and remarked, can’t you see she’s very concerned and wants to reconvene when you’ve gotten through a bit of your own healing? He could not disagree.

I’ve read countless books on the topic. NAMI.org is a web site full of great information for you as a depressive’s care giver. All very helpful.

Here’s a few titles available on Amazon and through kindle to keep the costs down:

Talking to Depression: Simple Ways To Connect When Someone In Your Life Is Depressed https://www.amazon.com/dp/B002DYMB1M/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_tai_OPHwAbK3Z6EC

Depression Fallout: The Impact of Depression on Couples and What You Can Do to Preserve the Bond https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0012GTZBG/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_tai_ZQHwAbH1P5EGN

When Depression Hurts Your Relationship: How to Regain Intimacy and Reconnect with Your Partner When You’re Depressed https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00HZ9SA92/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_tai_tRHwAb7H1451X

When Someone You Love is Depressed https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01H0IGJIQ/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_tai_TRHwAbDTCFKWT

I Don’t Want to Talk About It: Overcoming the Secret Legacy of Male Depression https://www.amazon.com/dp/B000FC0Q0C/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_tai_m3HwAbA93R7H9

The confusing days in the life….

When he asked me what time it was I was holding a stack of books and I said that it’s not too late just a second to look at my watch and this was what caused tonight’s major smack down. He’s called me a bitch for two days, running tests to see how I’m going to react to his nasty new nomenclature for me, similar to a teenager cursing in front of his parents. Yet I embarrassed him.

Apparently I’m the one who needs hospitalization and help and that he, “knows what’s going on here.” I ruin everything night after night with my “selfish shit” and do my own thing. My Etsy online shop and writing are more important to me than having a good relationship with him. Yet, it’s all I can do to keep from losing my own mind to the loneliness and isolation of cancer.

I’m somehow playing a game with him and somehow it’s my fault; apparently I’m the root cause of his problems. I tell him that nearly every night he’s laid here leaving me alone and now he’s saying that’s not true that I’m the one who has ignored him. A new critique appears in the repertoire: I’m an Intellectual bully and he does not want to be a victim anymore. Too embarrassed to even suggest anything resembling sex to him anymore, he’s barked back, “the only thing you’re even interested in is sex.”

No, I’m interested in happiness and I love him enough to stay. He also knows I’ve not the physical or financial resources to leave. There’s days when his light comes on and his blue eyes sparkle and shine like two stars in the sky. Come on you, just wake up and shine with me for a little while and let’s shut this nightmare down. It’s never very much about sex, is it. Love in all its permutations requires a cooperation of high and low and mid range notes all beating in time to the same heart. Does cancer extract my heart from my body for study by science and remain in a clear beaker on a dusty shelf behind an outdated computer book from 1999? No, not this time.

He said he wants me here and he loves me, but answers in vagaries when I ask for examples or specifics. As he retorts, more vague statements such as how I always criticize him. I never say anything positive. All he does is help me but I do not let him help me. Each and every time I ask for his help he’s got more important things to do, ignores me, or just sleeps the day away. My very favorite tactical maneuver is to keep me quiet by calling me a nag. I “nag nag nag all the time.” He said he gave himself up and he made that mistake because he thought it was the right thing to do for me. However it cannot possibly be true since I’m not worth it. At least not according to the oxymoronic verbal diarrhea spewing at me night and day.

I ask him what he means by anything he says, yet he won’t tell me. He said he misses himself more then I can ever miss him. This is a wonder because I’ve been mourning him for over three years. I am being crushed under the weight of his depression. My loneliness and frustration are at an all time high. He is starting to tell me how he can’t get anything from me, I have nothing he wants or anything that is valuable to gain from me. He gives, all he does is give and I cannot give anything worthwhile to the relationship so why don’t I just stop fucking up a good thing and just shut up?

Okay.

My Loves Electric (Not Anymore)


Our “Friends” Electric Gary Neumann

There’s a knock on the door/ and just for a second I thought I remembered you.
So now I’m alone / and I thought I could fend for myself.
(From Our Friends Electric by Gary Neumann)

I’m in a terrible dream from which awakening may prove worse. My house in a state of disrepair, crumbling down around me. I try to run as the floorboards warp and break behind me with each step, I scream moving towards a closing door my hand grips inches from the handle as it shuts and locks me inside our home’s sweet wreckage. My good dreams of the future simply exist as memories never made. Each new day wakes me with only the potential of a kind morning. And still alone, my mind races back to that door slamming in my dream single lingering question: I face myself and ask – where do I go from here?

My partner of 10 years decided in his state of untreated general anxiety disorder and depression to quit the miraculous rTMS treatments that incrementally could save him from a life in darkness. The magnetic woodpecker that sat over his head for 40 minutes and gave me five memorably glorious and wonderful days with him. Days and nights when his eyes returned to their beautiful sparkling turquoise with flecks of gold from cold, grey, and dead.

We want to sell our townhome. Simon our cat and me probably, for my longer term mortality, must move away from him should he remain embodied in anxiety’s bouts of rage and pain. Because metastatic breast cancer should take poll position over his anxiety, my life simply cannot continue in the same manner. The last hellish three years of watching the love of my life deteriorate from the vibrant and wonderful man into a nasty and cold asshole. My own coming months and years cannot be spent writing behind bars of someone else’s prison, a prison I handed him the keys to but he refuses to leave.

The keys to my prison do not exist, there’s no cure, and there’s no future with happiness together as a team, the team I really counted on – but Einstein said not all things that can get counted, should be counted.

Many women must experience similarly traumatic stress events with cancer ravaging their bodies. My life’s spirits’ exhaustion shows. I burn hot on fuel called cortisol down unpaved roads, climbing hills to where I believe waits my husband only to drop 10,000 feet until I can stop myself from falling. In the uglier more humiliating moments, I feel useless and unrepentantly inferior to able bodied non-disabled women. People say, “just move out!”

If it were only so easy.

The energy, money, and help (none of which I have by the way) moving takes and the emotional toll of the move itself and consider just the breakup – could shave years from my already shortened life. Yes, I do need to reconsider my options. Unfortunately, I’m unable to work much ouutside of my home and if I have any of my own money I don’t qualify for Medicare. In our great country, one must live far below the poverty line to become eligible to receive medical insurance to cover the incredibly high costs of living in a body full of metastatic breast cancer.

I’m watching my life expire, while my love lives imprisoned by something preventable and completely unwarranted since the keys lay in his reach. I imagine what the feelings of excitement of embarking on a new future, unladened by the heaviness of a partner with depression would feel like. However, given the genuine sadness, memories of pain and ugliness and tears combined with my MBC, and my heart and soul feel nothing even close to free. It’s so unfortunate my new direction will bring only lonely, empty, impoverished days and sleepless nights.

It’s as though his depression, rather then a hug and an apology, will be my runner up prize when it comes time to hit the road. I don’t want this new life, but I cannot stay in this one either. For three years I fought to try to help him. And now I cannot help him any longer. If you’d known us before you’d know why I struggled for so long to try and take care of him at the risk and loss in years of my own health.

What the fuck is life without love? What is life without purpose? What does it feel like to truly live alone with pain? How do I go forth into a life without anyone’s name to put on my advance directive? There’s no one left I can trust to see out my end wishes. No one who I can trust to speak for me when I cannot. Everyone’s gone – dead or left when cancer entered my bloodstream. Never did it occur to me that I’d become this lost so late in the game, but My Love is gone. He is not going to come back to me. I mourne him as he was and don’t know this person who says ugly horrible things and teases me with hope of his wellness and then maligns his state of mental health like a monster from an old movie in front of me.

It’s torture. He believes I am having him go to these treatments to have his brain scrambled like eggs. Yet rTMS was incrementally helping him. Now in his refusal to continue he’s just cruel and it makes me wonder what I did to deserve this horrible life. You’d think – why would anyone do this and choose to hurt someone and himself? How egotistical can one be?

You’ll have to ask him. He may indeed become my last love and now my lost life. Indeed, the friend was electric, but he chose to leave its tapping on his door unanswered and thus, unbeneficial. If life as I hoped truly is over, where to from here?

Understudy

My time to lie down and die as prescribed, only known as “patient.”
From stage left, enter:
Sutured together in an unholy friendship.
Acquainted by bones held lines closely to my chest.
“the role of Physical unrest today played by a courtesan,”
A voice wails from behind the curtain velveteen,
Dust heavy, too long, bloody incarnadine.
She plays an understudy, the nobody anyone rushed to see fall a part.
Our audience politely sighs,
Glancing at tonight’s playbill and shift in behinds squeak and uncomfortably crushed into Corinthian seats.
Heaving together an a capella sigh of disappointment.
Today my body portrayed the Middle East warring for fuel.
Raping the enemy with hammers pushed, harder through lustful hypodermics.
My lines spoken, I go wandering,
Offstage, off site, unwanted, barefoot and dry lipped;
A nomad, a Hebrew. Relatively she’s alone, not home.
A mother, my father, the dead with signs above their heads.
Light the candles dear passerby,
Your tour guide, “right over there she played a daughter.” They overheard my silent cries –
That’s not my coast, isn’t my ocean, not my sand, not your hand,
I no longer smell the salted hot white bag saving my bite.
Said in my head since the audience left for better known actors.

Instead, you sir alone you stay to see the night’s temporary.
No applause, and embarrassed by your eyes,
Covertly you force me to bend into a happen shape to cover my nudity.
Who told you why some baker had to twist pretzels into sad knots?
Ask me what it means.
Does anyone stand in to speak that question?

Back after the last play,
No one came by, they stopped when the conversation turned,
To malcontented topics of aunts who smile warmly, incontinent and pushed in wheelchairs,
Catheter bags hang low, they passed a few months back.
Impishly, my body denied and she hides behind a series

Of course Hamlet’s breath shows cold a ghostly father who smells of hemlock, Delights with whisperings of Juliet’s stupidity.
Shakespeare’s women fell behind tragic greed, seriously,
Or illogical acts of watery folly. Did they mean to die?

Maybe Ophelia had a lump in her breast. Who knows what the players thought.
Maybe she fell, exhausted that fateful evening, simply tripped
Into the river bed, her floggs of corsetry snagged on a craggy tombstone,
Which never meant any harm. It was too soon.
Too soon to wave the day on like cattlemen.
Too soon to allow trust as such, to my physicians and cancer friends.
The physicians who know no depth besides my tumor.
The groups who know of me now as pitiful yet with humor.

Too soon to let go. I never meant to play Ophelia, never
Wanted the understudy roles but if for the sake of the show
Going on I’ll take whatever I get tomorrow,
Because we do not know what to believe anymore.
And in your blue eyes, the longest goodbye,
Your own hands massage my heart bloody and beating.
I cry. Yearn again for your fingers to play it back.
Let me hear you breathe for me – please. Oh, one more time.

Strings tight against your fingertips and close my word heavy lips.
You play our rage into a wooden box not enough to fit
All our anger. Or hold ether of us tight enough to asphyxiate.
The unknown actor playing the role of me tonight,
Pretend with the rest of the audience and stay without disappointment.