This Body is Bullshit

I couldn’t remember where I left off, so I went back and reread the post about my dad’s birthday. We did have a nice evening out—even though I’m pretty sure he was onto me ordering him virgin drinks.

Shortly after that, the bottom dropped out for me. Whatever upper respiratory thing I was fighting knocked me flat. I was down for at least three days and, weeks later, I’m still coughing.

We also just came off two weeks of Matt working nights—outside, in a parking garage, during the coldest stretch of winter so far. It was brutal on him. I won’t lie though… coming home to quiet evenings alone wasn’t terrible. Unfortunately, neither of us adjusted well to the sleep schedule, so now we’re both exhausted and playing catch-up.

One of those nights, I had Kathy drop my dad and George (his dog) off to hang out with me and have dinner while she got some time to herself. I also intended to have some direct, uncomfortable conversations with him.

The most overwhelming, frustrating, and honestly mind-blowing part of FTD is that he doesn’t know he has it. He doesn’t understand it. He can’t comprehend it. No matter how simply or clearly I explain—facts, examples, logic—it just doesn’t stick. Just when I think he gets it, he questions it. Or makes an excuse. Or changes the subject. Or acts like the conversation never happened.

The social worker told us not to explain. She said we have to adjust, because he won’t. He can’t.

Kathy really struggles with that. I don’t have it in me not to try.

When I talk to him and try to explain what’s going on, he tells me he’s glad I’m letting him know because he’s confused about why certain things are happening. He asks me to tell him when he’s causing Kathy stress because he never wants anything to affect his relationship with her.

And honestly? That part is heartbreaking in the most tender way. He loves her so much. He’s obsessed with her. And while it’s sweet, it’s also a lot for her.

That night, we talked about alcohol. I told him it makes everything worse and that he shouldn’t be drinking. His compromise was that he wouldn’t drink at home—but if he goes out, he should be allowed one or two “to keep up appearances.” I didn’t argue. The next night he found a hidden bottle and made himself a drink before Kathy came down from working.

The no-power-tools rule? That went right out the window.

Then we talked about driving—the hardest topic of all. I explained that there’s a note in his medical record requiring testing he hasn’t done, and that if he were ever in an accident, he could financially devastate Kathy. I told him that even though he can physically drive, his reasoning, problem-solving, reaction time, and ability to navigate are affected.

He denied it. Explained it away. Minimized it.

Finally, I told him that his license expired on his birthday and that we likely wouldn’t be renewing it.

Most of this happened at the dinner table. Then we moved to the living room.

He said that when the time comes that he can’t drive, he wants me to be the one to tell him.

What I wanted to say was:
WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK WE WERE JUST FUCKING TALKED ABOUT!!!????

What I actually said was, “Okay.”

Then he said we should keep everything we talked about between him and me—he doesn’t want to upset Kathy.

I said “okay” again.

(For the record, Kathy and I tell each other everything. Especially the things he tells us not to.)

This week I also had my two-year post-radiation follow-up. The nurse hugged me. The doctor hugged me. They’re wonderful people. It’s strange to spend so much time with a medical team—thirty-one days in a row, two years ago—and then suddenly not see them anymore. It’s a good thing, of course. But you don’t realize how attached you become.

I got the “we don’t need to see you unless you need us” talk.
“We’re just a call or email away.”

Wow.

Two years out. After a previous four years of absolute hell. Hell that permanently altered my body—but maybe also made me a better person. I nearly died from sepsis. The cancer didn’t kill me; it changed me.

The medication is kicking my ass, it’s actually broken my body now, but I’m not letting it win.

I’m getting together with my girlfriends tomorrow evening to celebrate Donna’s birthday, and tomorrow I’m off to meet with the elder attorney with Kathy. Because apparently this is where we are. In just over a week I’ll be in Puerto Vallarta with Natalie. There is so much good in my life. The good usually outweighs the bullshit.

I just need to stop watching the news—and stop reading what friends on the opposite side of the political spectrum keep posting.