This Body is Bullshit

I keep picturing my dad getting lost in the woods and me having to call friends and family to form a search party. My brain won’t stop spinning worst-case scenarios. What if he wanders? What if he falls? What if he gets behind the wheel and hurts someone? I don’t know what the hell to do with him.

There are no real answers, and I’m drowning in questions. Is there seriously no way to reason with him? To explain this disease in a way he could actually hear? It feels impossible. Maddening.

The drinking is ridiculous. He slurs, stumbles, and God forbid we try to steady him—his pride explodes. He doesn’t want anyone to think he needs help. But he does. He’s going to fall and hurt himself, and I don’t know how to stop it. Sitting him down and pointing out how much drinking impairs him feels like the only option, but would it sink in? The doctor already told him: no more than two drinks, and not every day. Kathy and I remind him. He ignores us. Where the hell is this obsession with drinking even coming from?

And then there’s the driving. He’s already getting lost, but loses his mind if you say it. “I’m not lost, I just don’t know where I am.” Almost funny—except it’s fucking terrifying. What if he really hurts someone? What if Kathy loses everything because of him? The truth is, there’s nothing he needs to do or anywhere he needs to go without one of us. But how the hell do you take away his independence without stripping his dignity? He’s so damn proud. So vain.

Does he know what’s happening? Does he even have half a sense of it? I want to sit him down, make him aware, but every book and article says he won’t comprehend it. I can’t wrap my head around that.

Meanwhile, Kathy is go-go-go every single day. She’s going to burn out, and I don’t know how to help her. She needs to breathe. To rest. But she’s stuck in the grind of living with him every single minute, and I don’t know how she does it.

I’ve been trudging through The 36-Hour Day, the so-called bible for caregivers. Long, boring, depressing. Half of it is obvious. Half of it is dead-on. I can only do the audiobook—if I try to read it, I fall asleep.

All of this weighs on me. It’s in my chest, my brain, my sleep. I wake up exhausted, clenched. And then I go to work, where grown-ass adults can’t follow directions and I have to write them up. Fucking idiots. And then I wonder—do I have dementia too? My memory’s shit lately. Probably just my brain overwhelmed with menopause, surgeries with anesthesia, meds, three thousand things to track and people to worry about.

This morning there was a rainbow. I took a picture, posted it, wished everyone a good day. But it didn’t sink into me. Not today. Still, I’ll smile, make people laugh, get my job done. That’s what I do.

The one thing that’s been giving me peace is laying in the hammock, sun on my face. My new little ritual. Headphones in, that depressing book playing, swinging, just existing.

At least Frank’s on the mend. He’s finally acting more like himself again—aside from the explosive diarrhea in the living room, dining room, and laundry room this morning. Because of course.

And while I’m juggling all of this—why does no one ever tell me when my eyeliner’s halfway down my face? My husband did point out a whisker the other day though. That’s love, right?