The Smallest Torch

For the second time in recent days, Hunk tottered into my room in the wee hours, the beam of his little Ace flashlight leading the way. Not a necessity, as the sun was on its way up, but that little tool is his special 'security blanket.'

I was sound asleep, of course, my ears filled with foam rubber, but a part of me has been on alert since the birth of my first child, 25 years ago. So I quickly came to and pulled one stopper out. "Hey Dad, what's up? What's going on?"

"It's your mother, she's furious," he says.

I take a deep breath, having witnessed her fury. The digital shows it's only 5:15, and I can imagine the whole, sad scene.

"I was only asking if there's anything I could do for her," he tells me. In the past, he would ask and she would say get her some juice, or something. Now "she just berates me, and I don't know what I've done wrong!"

I sit up and show him the clock. "Here Dad, this is the problem. See? It's 5:15... it's too early for her to want juice. She's probably had a bad night's sleep and she just wants that."

I have him sit on the edge of my bed for a minute, patting his bony back. "And you know, she's probably scared, Dad. And angry... about this disease you have. She doesn't know how to handle it and so she lashes out at you. Or whatever... " I ball a fist in frustration. "It makes me mad that she does, but mostly it's about her wanting a full night's rest."

"Well," he suggests, "I will just go lie down next to her and not say anything until she says something first."

"Yeah, Dad, that sounds good. She will tell you when she's ready for juice, okay? But it certainly won't be before 6:00, you know. So see if you can just relax for a while, okay?"

He sighs. "Ok, but if you think of any way to help, well" and his tiny voice trails off. He maneuvers back to standing and shuffles on out, his little beam lighting the way.

1976

That's how many eBay positive Feedbacks I have today. Lots more overall-feedbacks (100% positive), so I consider this one of my primary sources of income. A flawed source, to be sure... But more on that another time.

The number -- 1976 -- is also significant. It marks the one-year anniversary of my pairing with he-bean, or "HB" for short. We met by chance, in a park, while I was driving solo across the country, and moved in together just a few weeks later. Bad idea, I think, if you want a marriage to last. Better to stay individuals whilst you learn about each other. Better to know what the heart of the man is truly like before giving yours to him... More on that another time, too.

But I got a taste during that summer, on our European adventure. If I'd been a stronger, braver individual, I might have left him afterward. 'Cause it became clear we had some mighty big issues in conflict. So big, in fact, that I took up cigarettes again, in France, to soothe my nerves. (And I'd kicked my seven-year, 2-pack-a-day habit only three months prior, so that was a big disappointment in myself, too.)

Should'a known I was in for a rocky vacation when, early on our first morning in London, we couldn't --actually, HE couldn't-- settle on a restaurant to eat breakfast. I'd just become a vegetarian (because he was one) and maybe all the bangers-and-mash and other meat smells were bothering him, but he kept getting up from each table and leaving, with me trailing behind, bewildered.

I was uncomprehending his problem and getting a little complaining and whiny, with him saying how he gets grouchy when he hasn't had anything to eat in a while, and me snarking back that he probably shouldn't be leaving so many restaurants then, without eating, and we started getting louder and louder, walking along the sidewalk hunting for the next possibility. Until he slapped me right across the face (not too hard) just to shut me up.

Took me so much by surprise it actually worked, for a second. Then I grabbed his hand that slapped me and bit it (not too hard).

Whereupon we really started shouting and causing a ruckus, until a very nice Bobby came up and told us to quiet down -- that's just not how people behaved on their side of The Pond. (I think it might have been the Fourth of July, actually... our bicentennial.)

Well, we found our silent way into another restaurant pretty quick, and I left the table to go downstairs to the loo... for a good cry. A nice elderly British woman was there who suggested, in a roundabout way, that I might have found the wrong man for me!

Over the next four weeks (?) I had cause to agree with her, time and time again... but when we got back on US soil, I didn't make my break for it...

Not until coming here to care for Hunk and Bitchy, 32 years later. And go figure. (Bitchy reminds me SO MUCH of HB.)

Start me up ... or, Moving in with Hunk and Bitchy

This blog is way overdue for me. Gonna treat it like a personal journal, to try and get out of my system some of the angst that's accummulating since I moved in with "Hunk and Bitchy."

Since I'm posting it to the internet, obviously my privacy is sacrificed, but I'll try to remain anonymous. Don't want to hurt anyone...


...I've been here since Sept. 2008. Nearly a year and ten months. Moved myself and everything I owned from California back to New Hampshire, to live with and help my elderly parents -- "Hunk" who is nearing 90 and has Alzheimer's disease, and "Bitchy" who is 85 and enjoys life with what one friend defines as Narcissistic Personality Disorder.

And really, for the most part, I have nothing to complain about. It's been a pretty cushy gig, as they say.

But things are changing quickly now, and I don't know if I'll make it to the final scenes.