Hate

Yesterday I was full of hate.  It was with me while I was at the clinic with Josh.  It washed over me as I helped him put his clothes back on.  It set in me as fear as I saw his blood from his bowels on the strategically placed hygienic gauze sheet on the bed.  I was fearful and full of hate as I brushed tears from my eyes ignoring the tears from my eyes and pretending there were no tears in my eyes.  Because Josh was there and the nurses were there and other patients were there, I could not show the truth in me.  And that truth is that I'm not strong enough for this shit, through sickness and in health.  And in his sickness I am angry and bitter and not emotionally fortified or in the least bit prepared for the odds to not be in his favor or the ultimate certainty to come for him before me.  The truth is I'm naive and ignorant and ashamed of my fears I keep at bay.  I'm not strong enough to keep them away too long.  I am ashamed of my self-pity.  It is in stark contrast to Josh's own lack of self-pity and a dark mirror to his light, the void of fear he possesses, the nothingness of anger he carries.  He is constantly present and in the moment.  He does not worry about the future because there is no future, there is only now.  He is the ever-smiling, silly-faced Alfred E. Neuman.  You know the one, the Mad Magazine mascot.  "Why me worry?," his tagline.

There is blood where there should not be blood and Josh is weak, but not broken.  Josh is tired, but not displeased.

And yet I am hot and tearful and welled up within me is an ocean of unjust unrest.  I am angry at yoga; I am not there.  I close my eyes and understand my breath is the only constant I will have in this world; it will be the only thing to get me through.  Not him, or my friends, or my family, or my body, or even my mind.  Only my breath.  So I breath.  And I think, I must accept this hate.  What good is it to hate my hate?  I am ashamed enough.

And I know it's fear, really.  This hate is fear.  I am surprised a little, as I self-identify as lacking fear.  Not fearless, per se, but not afraid of most things.  Except this.  I always have had Josh; he has almost been as constant as my breathing.  To imagine a life without him feels like losing my breath. Only worse.

And the next day, today, I am feeling solemn.  I want to cry but do not cry.  I can't cry at work.  I do not wish to cry on my commute.  My regular notices my demeanor, but as bartender I can't display my woes.  I'm a professional; I can't display my truth.  That, and I do not wish to pretend not to be crying if I begin to cry.  I am not a very good liar.

So I say...  I don't remember what I say.  I don't feign to be great, but I may say things are fine.  Fine enough to be there, to have come to work.  Fine enough that I'm speaking and meeting your eyes with my eyes.  Fine enough to keep breathing.

On my way home I realize I haven't been with Josh all day and most days are like this.  I only see him when he gets home, or when we both get home from work.  I look forward to him, to seeing him.  I am pleased to spend my nights with him; I pride myself on the time we make for each other, for this marriage to which we dedicate ourselves.  It may seem mundane, but to simply be with one another in our living room, watching t.v. is more than enough.  We joke.  A lot.

I confess to him I was sad yesterday, a sad sack.  Woe was me, is me.

He says, without missing a beat, "I'm sorry.  I'll try not to get any more diseases."  He jokes.  It's a joke he's used before.


And we laugh before dinner and watching t.v.







July 22, 2015