February 26, 2012
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Weirder still….
He’s thanked me profusely for the time I’ve spent with him, answering questions, helping him with treatments, medications. He takes me up on an offer to pick up mail at my house out west. He wants to get propane tanks filled. We need to get some groceries. My printer needs to be replaced.
We set out very late. He drives. We stop for gas. He’ll comment on how far away I live, but part of the reason he’s going with me is to refresh his memory on how to get to my house. Maybe someday he will come out. He checks out the paint inside, wants to replace the bulbs in the fans, the batteries in the smoke detectors. He comments favorably on the work I did on the unstained furniture. I plan on getting more and staining it. My own bedroom furniture will be parawood because it’s easy to stain and the results are lovely. I just don’t know yet what I’ll need as far as furniture is concerned so I’m sticking with my old furniture for awhile.
He shops very slowly. I’m not used to that. He’s never had to shop with small children so he can take his time. When we check out, there is a family with small kids ahead of us in line. The mother isn’t watching her 3 year old who takes it upon himself to start grabbing at the items we are loading on the conveyer belt. Before I can say anything, the mother notices, “Billy, those aren’t our things. Our things are in the basket. Come along now. No no.” Billy grabs a stack of blank compact discs and announces, “This isn’t our stuff.” Before anyone else can say a word, D bellows, “Don’t touch that!” He has a deep voice. He scares the shit out of the mother and both kids. She grabs Billy with one hand and trots out at light speed with the cart while her embarrassed husband waits for his receipt.
I struggle to keep from busting a gut laughing because it’s the funniest thing I’ve seen in a long time. D explains why he did it while we unload. I tell him he wasn’t wrong. I don’t tell him that it was hard not to laugh. He feels a bit bad about scaring the kid.
I head home to feed animals, get the mail, get cleaned up, and do a little more laundry. Then I fly over and we cook and soak in the jacuzzi. We make a half-hearted attempt to be intimate, but he’s pretty uncomfortable.
I have lots of things on my mind. Deadlines. Moving. More deadlines. Paperwork to gather. Taxes. License renewal. All will be right by April, but so much to do.
I wake up alone at 5 am. The bed is cold. I get up and pad through the house looking for D. He’s not in either bathroom, at the computer, in the den. A light is on in the kitchen. He’s not there either. Then I hear a noise in the garage. He there, tidying up. I tell him what time it is. His internal clock is screwed up. He’s been up, icing his shoulder, then he started tidying the garage. He looks at me and gently says, “Go back to bed, Honey. I’ll be there soon.” I pad back to the bedroom, and crawl under the sheets, wide awake. It’s a weird feeling. He talked to me earlier about his divorce 13 years ago….the events leading up to it. I had assumed that his wife had filed. I learned that he had. Then he had had what amounted to a mid life crisis at 33 years of age. He hasn’t spoken to his ex wife in over a year; she didn’t even send a card at Christmas. He last saw L when he dropped off gifts for the Angel Tree at her job, and it was reportedly a hand off with nary a nod. B has never contacted him other than to add him as a business contact. The other “girlfriends” are absent from his life. I think about all that while he comes in, rinses a glass in the sink, heads into the bathroom to freshen up. He slips into bed beside me and pulls me close. He kisses the top of my head about a dozen times….and drifts off to sleep quickly. I stare into the dark. All the knowledge of the previous evening spinning overhead like a fan.
“I took care of my brother when he was dying. I took care of R, with her frequent suicide attempts. She was a good girl, a wonderful wife. I couldn’t handle the mood swings. When she moved out, I realized I needed a change. I couldn’t live like that anymore. I don’t want to have to take care of anyone ever again.”
I won’t tell him that someday he may have to do that. His mother lives locally, and she’s in her eighth decade of life. When she declines it will be a slippery slope. His dad lives states away, and is forgetful and easily tired. D was shocked at his decline when he visited last year. His dad liked me a lot, but D was distressed that he kept asking what my name was.
I’ll be there, of course. He shouldn’t have to deal with that alone.
It feels weird though. I can’t put my finger on it, but it does.
