So Tom was transferred to the Cleveland Clinic from Youngstown October 11. The irony truly broke my heart as they closed the doors to the transport van. I'd sat in the emergency room for six hours holding his hand waiting to find out why he was throwing up blood. We still don't have any answers (negative for ulcers), but at least my fear that he was going into liver failure (blood in the vomit with no other symptoms is often an indicator of ruptured varices in the GI tract due to cirrhosis, which is one step up from where he is now, with bridging fibrosis, which is stage 2/3 in the five stages of liver disease, in his case brought on by hepatitis C) is unfounded.
Oh, yeah, back to the irony. Cadence turned 3 that day, and it had been three years and a day since I'd been admitted to give birth. I actually checked him into emergency and then went upstairs to the OB desk, not even aware at that point that I was already almost 4cm dilated and well on my way to poppin' one out. Tom passed a kidney stone at some point during our stay in the hospital. I actually left with Cady two days before he was able to come home.
This has been the ongoing story of our lives, even before Cady arrived. And it turns out that the whole poor poor pitiful me act that my husband has been putting on is just that -- an act. At least, in my eyes. The last 2 times he's been in the hospital they've done tox screens. The first time it was because he did appear visibly high on something. Silly me, I thought it had been the weed we smoke. Turns out it's all kinds of other yummy illicit substances -- roxycet, oxycontin, and cocaine, to name but a few. And it's dawning on me now that yes, my husband has a lot of health problems that are beyond his control. But he also has the ability to alleviate some of his symptoms. And he's not doing it. He's just making it worse.
So I'm left with the haunting questions that linger. They bounce around my soul and leave me with a literal ache in my chest. I'm a woman who's already been down the marital trail twice before this latest matrimony. And frankly, I look back at the cheating and beating (on the other side, not mine) & I wonder if those weren't just dress rehearsal for the real gut wrenching.
Because this all just fucking sucks so fucking hard. I didn't know what shit was, really. This is shit. And I have all the power, all the resources to just walk away, but I feel trapped anyway. Trapped and angry and sad.
Have you ever gotten tired of crying? And it's not even good crying. I rarely feel better afterwards. Maybe it's because I do it almost 100% in private. I can't cry in front of my kid. I just can't. I remember seeing my Mom cry, quite a bit as a child, and it really rocked me. I can't do it.
That often leads to self-loathing, because I think, who the hell am I to cry? So self-indulgent. Crying -- and therapy. It's for pussies, right?!
Seriously. Christ! I am sick to death of myself. I mean, really, in the grand scheme of things my life really isn't shit. I have a fantastic and loving and supportive family. My Mother (whom my sister and I still refer to as Mommy, yes, I am a tard) is a saint. My grandfather has been known to secretly pad my bank account at the end of the month with just a little extra so that we don't get our electricity or water shut off. I have people at church who pray for us continually. I am healthy, my child is healthy, and my husband isn't dying -- though one might wonder if he's not trying to slowly but surely kill himself (the nasty bitch in me wants to add to the end of that sentence *fucking coward*). That's the anger and disappointment talking. No, I did not sign up for this, but goddammit if I'm going to get another divorce. I feel like a pit bull, hanging on. Anger is often the end result. It's poisonous, too, and makes me wonder if all of it is worth it.
Oh, but it is....I have this beautiful child, and I watch her every day and think, how could so much beauty spring from so much ugly dysfunction? How do two people who are so eternally and irrevocably broken make something so mind-blowingly amazing?
And of course I realize that we all started out like that. Every one of us, until our parents and life reached in and twisted us around. Rag dolls, all of us. If we're lucky, we're the Velveteen rabbit in the end. Right now, though, I feel like one of those headless dolls that populate the corners of my living room.
See? Like I said, I'm sick to death of myself. Boo hoo hoo. I'm the hysterical nun in Airplane, where is the line of people down the aisle waiting to smack me up?!
Interesting. I actually feel better. But that's to be expected; I always feel better after I puke. And suddently I'm struck with an image of ze frank spitting out scrabble pieces. Ah ha ha. And that's funny.