This won’t be edited until Sunday morning.
There’s a little laundry left to do tomorrow and a few more basement windows to insulate before the temperature plunges, but we’re close to winter-storm ready. What I wasn’t prepared for was the toll this week took on me physically and emotionally — and I’m not talking about personal grief or my sister’s escalating war on reality. Crankenstein’s anxiety has been out of control lately in ways that are painfully reminiscent of 2020-2022, right down to our disagreements about the extent of the problem and what to do about it.
It’s a tricky subject to broach here, or in conversation with anyone but her mother, because speaking frankly about ‘Niles’ invites unnecessary confusion, disapproval, or even stigmatization. “Why is Cranky so callous toward her wife’s suffering?” Person A might huff, while someone else might get the wrong impression of Crankenstein and think she’s a flaming jerk when it’s really ‘Niles’ who fits the bill. There’s also the ol’ “Does Cranky, of all people, really want to complain about the strain of Crankenstein’s illness?” chestnut, which is fairer in some respects than others.
‘Niles’ bears a stronger resemblance to her eating disorder than it does to Parkinson’s or Crohn’s; it hijacks our lives and takes everyone, including Muriel, hostage. The deleterious effect it has on my health is something I’ve lived with daily since 2020 and I can’t take much more of it. We’ve been going in circles about this for five years and the expectation seems to be that I should smile beatifically, suffer nobly, and indulge ‘Niles’ to his heart’s content, then stroke Crankenstein’s hair and murmur “There, there, I know how hard this is on you.”
A few nights ago, as I made 10+ shaky trips from the backyard to the basement, carrying shelving components I’d carefully removed from a 115 lb. box, I paused near the top of the stairs, lightheaded and drenched in sweat (from PD, not exertion). It was the culmination of hours of arduous work around the house and a great deal of cleaning up after Crankenstein, who was fresh off a 2.5-hour nap. She stood a few feet away in the kitchen, making another mess she’d probably leave for me, and called out as I began to walk downstairs.
“I’m not asking you to do it right now, but can you find the 8 lb. weights when you’re done with that?”
She’d been pestering me about the weights for several days but I still blinked in astonishment. I was visibly hunched and unsteady and tired. Around her were stacks of everything I still needed to carry downstairs, throw out, or recycle. But none of it registered more than superficially; all that mattered was that she wanted to lift weights she couldn’t find.
“Really?!” I asked incredulously, and we exchanged a few sharp words. A half-hour later, after finishing my work and washing my hands, I found the weights and gave them to her. Similar scenes have played out at least a half-dozen times this week, with Crankenstein alternately incapacitated by ‘Niles’ or too busy with napping and memes and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia to help.
During her marathon nap this afternoon, I cleaned up after Muriel in the backyard; raked and bagged leaves; rearranged the patio so there was room under its roof for things we’d need in rain or ice; did several loads of laundry; and took care of other chores that didn’t matter to her. My neck and left foot were painfully twisted the whole time, and my left arm was weak and couldn’t grip anything without cramping. I thought back to the 8 lb. weight request, the bitter ‘Niles’ arguments, and how she complained she was hungry last night and wanted to cook but couldn’t “because the pot’s dirty.”
“You can’t clean it?” I asked, occupied with something else. She didn’t reply and made no move toward the sink.
How much of my remaining time — and mobility — should be spent looking after an almost 40-year-old woman who feels overtaxed by occasionally getting up with Muriel instead of sleeping in six days a week? Who knows that ‘Niles’ makes us miserable and causes extraordinary stress that’s terrible for Parkinson’s but is unwilling to fully confront it? Crankenstein isn’t responsible for all of our problems, not by a long shot; some are hers, some are mine, and some are ours. But she’s the only one with the power to evict her anxiety, a devious squatter akin to Michael Keaton in Pacific Heights. If she’s unwilling to do that, I’ll find other accommodations and the two of them can be roommates.