Bad July

Could July be the worst month of my life?  It has been filled with volatility and overt anger.  The worst day I thought was mid-month at 3 am when a full body muscle spasm racked my body.  My screams and pleas were met with inaction, derision, and violence.

A few days later I posed innocuous questions to my ALS doctor and walked away with a psychology referral.  Four days after that I posed more questions to my primary care physician who curbed the detail and offered another psychology referral.  Another seven days and no appointment set, emotions hit fever pitch, another job disintegrates, and it is okay to leave me with a complete stranger...NOT!  When it appears that he is turning the tables and calling the police on me...Hell no!...I call them on him.  Instead my parents and sister show up...shortly, the unsuspecting caregiver shows up...I yell at her to leave.  He could only offer that the caregiver is female.  Nothing more.  

The police arrive and I finally report him for the abuse I received mid-month.  I also report the neglect I suffered in the course of the day and his most recent stunt, leaving me with an unvetted caregiver.  I know I will suffer consequences for filing a police report but it is not a false report.

The first travesty?  The officer advises my husband to leave for the night...what he was angling for in the first place.  I am left with the stranger.  Fuck that!  I leave.  Down the gravel drive and on the paved secondary public road.  Crazy?  Desperate.

The next day he arrives home dismissing the caregiver.  I attempt to get up from bed alone as he refuses to ask if I'm ready to get up and heads to the bathroom.  Fine, I got this.  As I get up, the bed rail shifts and my half cheek slips off the bed.  My feet slide out and I hit the carpet with a thud.  The husband turns on the shower and commences showering, choosing to ignore me.  After his shower he  looks into the bedroom, accuses me of throwing myself onto the floor and begins to harangue me about how if the police get called, they will take ME to a home or to the hospital. I tell him that I'm not listening to his bullshit and that I need to get off the floor, that I need to go to the bathroom.  He refuses to help me.  I begin a chant...Help me up...Help me up...Help me up.  He walks away, out of the room, in fact.  I am incensed!  What a colossal ass!  My chant is more frantic and insistent.  He's calling the police.  How nice of him.  He goes outside to await police completely disregarding my welfare.  I try to recover from the floor.

I allow my body to fall to the left and roll forward.  Error!  My arms don't hold me up and I am face down in my down comforter.  Alone, in trouble, and gasping for each breath.  Breathe.  I hear their arrival and await rescue.  Paramedics enter the room and begin talking to me.  Hello!  I guess in his haste to paint his nasty picture, he failed to tell them my arms are shit.  Gone.  They ASK if they may roll me over.  I'm flipping amazed!  I tuck my chin to gain an airway and gasp out, "Yes!"

Air, at last!  They want to know what the problem is.  No problem, I fell from bed and my husband refused to pick me up.  (By the way, I am right next to a beautiful electric Hoyer lift.)  Questions ensue...Why won't I take my meds?  "What meds would those be?", I ask.  "Because I take Gabapentin, Oxybutrinin, and Baclofen...not an anti-depressant in the bunch."  Paramedics begin asking me questions to determine my competence.  I answer correctly and succinctly and tell that Obama is our President.  No dice for the husband's agenda of getting me transported for psych reasons.  I am of sound mind.  He is livid! Well, Baby, so am I!

Oh, he finally took me to the bathroom under the supervision of paramedics.  Nice!  Now that their watchful gaze is gone, so are his manners. He continues to taunt me, telling me that he did not abuse me and that I keep throwing myself about for attention.  In short order, I am incensed again.  What an absurd self-serving idiot!  How can he be so incredibly stupid!  He begins angrily shoving food in my mouth.  I shove it away, knocking the OJ across the room.  He leaves me in the house...alone.  He refuses to dress or feed me (without the requisite emotional abuse).  Something must be done...I call our Pastor.  No real help there.  Prayers that my husband refuses to participate in.  I wrap up the call with our pastor.  Husband not in the house...I call out for help to no avail.  He refuses to use the baby monitor system he foisted upon me.  My need is urgent.  I look down the carpeted hallway and figure I cannot make it to my bathroom.  I try to hold my urine...no dice.  It goes right thru the maxi-pad my husband insisted is just as good as a Poise pad, through the material sling of the transfer chair, and onto the kitchen floor.  

I am humiliated.  I cast about for a solution.  I know how this plays out...he blames me for pissing myself, on purpose.  He comes back in the house, I defiantly face him, hoping he doesn't notice my accident.  He noticed and true-to-form accused me of doing it on purpose.  More taunting, false accusations, hurt and pain.  I'm screaming.  I'm crying.  I can't get away.  He says that I can just sit in my urine-soaked nightgown.  I leg-push the dripping wheelchair into the living room.  Fine, he doesn't give a crap about me.  I won't give a crap about the carpet.  He raises his camera phone saying that he can't wait to share this moment and snaps a picture.  I shield my face.  I cannot believe the depth of my humiliation.  I cannot believe this is the same man that promised to love and honor me.

Yeah, the jerk left me.  Helpless.  Alone.  Heartbroken.  Betrayed.