Knock knock: depression calling!

Bing bong bing bong bong bong bing bong (Big Ben chimes doorbell)

Me: who is it?

Depression: oh an old friend!

Me: [excited because I’ve been isolated for seven months, opens door expectantly] Oh, no. It’s you. How did you get our new address?

Depression: I can find you anywhere at any time in anyplace so anyway I’d like to talk to your husband.

Me: [through a barely opened door crack] It seems you’ve already been talking to him behind my back!

Depression: Oh, he he, yeah that. Well, I’m always around…in the garage, the workshop, sitting in his office. He and I have a pact. If he’s laying down I come visit him and ruminate along with him, kind of like meditation.

Me: I was under the impression he is meditating, at least that’s what he’s been telling me.

Depression: HA! That’s funny. He tells you he’s meditating? Oh, good one. He’s finally learned, goodness he’s a stubborn one. He’s meditating alright. Rumination, meditation, what’s the difference?

Me: I’m very disappointed, let me come out there on the front porch, I’d prefer he not know you’re here. I love him and love is stronger than darkness and depression. [I try abc hold back my nearly audible angry tears…not again I say to myself.]

Depression: Well, I got news for ya toots, he’s been cheating on you with me.

[I slip out the front door and quietly shut it behind me careful not to let it see our new house.]

Now out in front of the house:

Depression: Oh very nice inside, I’ve already seen it, been around during those inexplicable arguments, when he tells you to “leave him alone” it’s because I’m there. I’m just good at hiding. You never do see me coming do you?

Me: Oh, I think you’re not as smart as you believe. That’s when I try my best to show him love and caring, make sure he knows I’m here for him. Love heals depression. Well…That and his psychiatrist and his medication.

Depression: Well, when was the last time he had his meds adjusted or saw his psychiatrist? And if you really believe love can beat me, you’re sorely mistaken.

Me: You don’t stand a chance in hell against me. Our trust will see us through. He knows you’re lying to him he just can’t always find the strength to remember sometimes and he pushes me away for a while, but I’m stronger than you. And I know all too well when you’re around.

Depression: Ha. Stupid woman. Drugs may have worked for a while, but I think you’re really overstating your importance. More like impotence aren’t you. I know your sex life goes down the tubes so to speak when I’m around, just like his hygiene. Haha haha. Stinks, doesn’t it?

Me: you’re an asshole. Is your partner anxiety with you?

Depression: Of course, didn’t you notice he was here last week. You were at your oncologist appointment and he knew you would be gone for enough time – didn’t his son push the right buttons while you, poor thing, were getting poked and prodded three hours away. Oh, we also have a contact at your oncologist’s office.

Me: Why can’t you just pick on someone else? No, let me take that back – no one deserves to feel this way. Why don’t you just piss off and die, both of you?

Depression: Oh we wouldn’t do that, and besides we are having a great time during Covid. Lots of new recruits to play with. I mean, we can’t seem to get through to you, but there’s thousands if not millions of people who have a really hard time with isolation and not seeing friends or the people they love. Covid has taken over the hardest part of our job!

Me: This won’t go on forever – you’ll have to go back to working twice as hard again. And by the way some of us are just not going to let you in, since we have no proclivity for being depressed.

Depression: Don’t worry we are not giving up. We will eventually get in your door too. Besides there are plenty better candidates than you for now. Lots more people with cancer who will relent to that negative self talk “why me?” “What did I do to deserve cancer?” “I’m such a loser I can’t even get better with chemotherapy.” “Where did all my friends go? Why am I so alone and afraid?” Oh those are my cues to put a dark veil over their minds, let them sleep all the time, and if the cancer doesn’t kill them…

Me: You’re a sick sick thing. Go away, he’s calling me and I don’t want him knowing you’re here. I’m going to hug him and put on some of his favorite music and get him out in the sunshine today.

Depression: [nearly invisible and hardly audible] Shit, no wonder we can’t get in, he’s a little stronger and you know what we are allergic to…but I’m always around…gasp…cough…I’ll see you soon…gasp…I promise you…wheeze cough…I…

Slipping inside I slam shut and lock the front door and go to wake up my crabby morning hubby. “Honey let’s get out today I’ll make us some lattes. Take a shower and shave so I can kiss your handsome face, and let’s sing and play guitar for a while. I’m gonna put on some music.”

Meanwhile the 70 degree temperature and bright blue sky along with the birds coming to bathe in the fountain in front of the house remind me that the world is full of memories not yet made and there’s much to be thankful for. I remember that love, patience, guidance and above all a commitment to my gratitude to having our happiness uninterrupted by this other disease that lives silently in the dark corners of our life isn’t going to visit us today and I hope not for a long time to come.

May you find peace and hope in these strange and difficult days.

How to Move with Metastatic Cancer (hint: HELP!)

How do you handle huge life events with metastatic cancer? As best as you can and with slow determination. Asking for assistance from your friends and from your family sometimes doesn’t pan out. I have a wonderful friend I made years ago at a garage sale. She was a couple of dollars short and I’d covered her so she could enjoy a few vintage ceramics and beads.

Now, six years later Des is my friend and Des is my housekeeper. Through the course of time we’d found commonality in our eclectic eye for beads and for jewelry making. We drudged through the stress of packing, readying this memory box of 1600 square feet to move its contents elsewhere. We actually live in a pretty nice townhouse. If you’d like to check out my amateur “staging” here’s the link to the sales materials including a 3-D rendering and a video. http://www.1481carrington.com/

Removing the traces of 11 years of memories as eclectic and varied as the beads I collect brings about a sort of melancholy to my heart. Des came over to help me pack as we sell our townhouse. She also refuses to take a dime because what once were services have shifted into the kindness of a friendship. She commented that I’d give the shirt off my back, which I literally have done several times in my life. She said she couldn’t possibly take money from me when clearly I was the one who needed help right now.

My husband made sure she got paid for it, since she cannot afford the time and I cannot afford the intense guilt. I’ve never needed so much physical assistance before. I guess I’ll chalk it up to age and leave the cancer for another time. But I can’t, because it’s for the cancer we are moving and due to the cancer that I need help.

All the kindness I have shown her was reflected back at me in ways I never imagined. When we give it should never hold the expectation that we may receive something in return. But as my philosophy about karma is not to do bad in the world as it keeps you looking over your shoulder at whose anger is behind you. Then you cannot see the good that’s right in front of you and you either miss these opportunities or trip over them and fall on your face.

A change of residence is very high on the stress scale https://www.stress.org/wp-content/uploads/2019/04/stress-inventory-1.pd

My stress adds up to just under having a 50% chance over the next two years of having a catastrophic health event. I think I’m already there so I’ve beaten the stress scale by four and a half years. But looking back I had a very low level of stress in my life in the years leading up to my diagnosis, so go figure. Perhaps the subconscious predicts stressors before they arrive to eat us alive. I was planning a change of career and the very day – March 15, 2015 – was the same day I was diagnosed in the hospital and the day I was supposed to start a new job.

You Oughta Be in Pictures!

The house really shows well – I’ll have it even more staged for our open house on Sunday. There is so much work to do after living a full life for 11 years in a home. And our home has been really good to us. I’m grateful to it for giving us positive memories, but it’s time to close this chapter in our lives and move onto the next chapter .

I know intrinsically that this house will be wonderful to whomever buys her next. It’s stable and so well cared for and we feel bittersweet selling her but we leave it with good love and positive energy. After searching for our new digs, I believe you can tell if people who lived in a house were happy and if it looks like a product of divorce or ugliness. Not so here!

The Zombie Apocalypse

In the state of California, if someone died in a house in the three years prior to selling it you must disclose that event to the buyers? I found it morbid and kind of strange. our culture’s obsession with first person shooter games, zombies, and horror films directly opposes the feelings of disgust when faced with real death or the dying. I’d think people would be desensitized to death rather than creeped out by it.

It’s a huge decision to invest into a house. Love, time, energy, money and holiday spirit, all paint it the colors of the personalities who reside inside. Our next home will likely be my last move, my last address, the last place my name will be printed on mail and arrive in my mailbox. Maybe the quote about dying twice – once when your physical body dies and the last time someone says your name aloud – should be corrected to dying three times if we include the last time your name is printed on junk mail. I bet junk mail lists last a lot longer than even the youngest people who might speak of me later given the tenacity of mass marketers.

Oh, and I’ll submit this: if the last time you posthumously receive a piece of junk mail addressed to you is the last whisper of your name what does that say about our culture when we cannot even control having our online avatars removed from Facebook and Twitter. If that’s all true, then we’re all going to live forever. A planet of the walking dead carrying sacks of marketing materials for the Red Cross and coupons for barbecue. The zombie apocalypse is upon us.

Canferatu VS The Depression Devil

One night last week Canferatu possessed my intestinal tract. The inhuman noises growled low and deep, as surely once awake, I’d look in the bathroom mirror to find I’d become vampiric, zombified, even bloodless. Only the undead, at least in movies, moan as though they’ve contracted a case of projectile diarrhea. Further proof of my dance with the devil’s own son, the sounds indicated subsequent sharply intense pain each time the idea or slightest notion of eating or drinking entered my mind. I never knew 25 feet of tubing could sound so evil.

Why the thunder from down under? Invariably, this abdominal symphony of the undead crescendoed every single time the husband became angry with me or yelled. It’s decibel rating increased to 11 on a scale of 1 – 10, somewhat like Nigel Tufnel’s guitar amp goes to 11 in “Spinal Tap.”

Some days Craig’s monster depression devil slips an itchy gray Soviet-issued wool military sweater onto his already uncomfortable skin. Its on those occasions when to simply “touch” my husband could bring on a fight to the death between Canferatu and Depression Devil. What this all means is I will not be touched by anyone more than the occasional friendly hug for days, weeks, or in worse times, months on end.

Yes, relationships can wither and possibly die without physical intimacy. Every book, every psychiatrist or psychologist, and anybody who has been married will agree that the three ingredients that keep a relationship together are friendship, trust, and sex. All three elements have to be in place although sometimes not in equal parts. It’s even more frustrating because we used to have an amazing relationship. Since his depression hit hard, he rarely talks to me about anything substantial, we don’t go out alone together, and we certainly don’t have sex but once in a while. Oh but he does yell at me. That’s so comforting…to know I’ll get yelled at…

Detrimental to my health, a lack of physical intimacy can decrease my lifespan, and is scientifically proven to increase my rate of mortality by 50%. (I don’t know if it’s 50% but seems good enough number to plug in for the purpose of this blog post.) It also bothers me that instead of reading a book on depression or cancer he’s solving his past marriage psychological fallout and is reading, “Walking on Eggshells,” a book I gave him a number of years ago. It’s an excellent resource to help people who have had any sort of relationship with these inhumane, vampiric assholes who suffer from borderline personality disorder and narcissistic personality disorder. And he leaves the book out to annoy the living shit out of me. Actually, I know it’s not purposely left around to eat away at my cellular structure, but it certainly feels that way sometimes.

Anyone can get lured into relationships with these soul suckers. As long as you’re a good source for what they want and don’t have any needs of your own, they will pretend to love you. But never call them on a lie, a trick, or their own self aggrandizement. You’ll be sorry. I was made to suffer at the ugliness of my mother’s NPD symptoms, and I suppose that’s why I’m immediately sensitive to feeling my love being yo-yo’d by my husband’s depression fallout.

Feeling nauseous and in a tremendous amount of pain this past week, my mood shall we say, just hasn’t been at it’s perky best. I’m becoming very wary of the situation as it stands. Oh, there are good days. Today wasn’t a good day since Canferatu decided to do horrible painful things to my left leg and I ran out of actual ability to stand up anymore. After our dinner guests left about 11:00 pm, my body was simply too exhausted to get out of bed at all. I slept until 9 last evening and will reset my circadian clock and sleep at a normal hour tonight; I’m feeling a little better and sometimes, less is more.

Hey, many thanks for reading and stay tuned for the next installment of my adventures with Canferatu.