My post about Anthony coming home yesterday elicited a few encouraging comments for which I am appreciative, but also humbled, because I am not this hero I have somehow cast myself as, so I need to remedy that impression. No, I am much more the anti-hero, regardless of my good intentions. So this post is about honesty.
When Anthony comes home and wants to be the workaholic he once was, and draws attention to the things Son and I haven’t kept up with (lawns, garden, sweeping pathways, cleaning out the washhouse, washing the car), I become bitchy and resentful and say things like, “I’m doing my best. Why do you always have to find fault?” and sometimes I add a few expletives for good measure.
When Anthony comes home and can’t walk properly, I sometimes hurry him along and then (because he is heavy) thrust him into his armchair in a way that is not gentle and he says, “Why do you have to be so rough?” and I retort, “It’s the only way I can get you into the chair!” and he says, “Well, do you have to throw me?” and I snap, “Yes!” Sometimes we both then collapse into laughter so it’s okay, but sometimes we don’t.
When Anthony comes home and is in the armchair, asleep or semi-conscious, I sneak away and do other things because if he doesn’t want to watch Black Books or look at my blog or do anything except slump, I avoid him – yes I avoid him.
When Anthony comes home, I count the hours before I can take him back to the nursing lodge because he has somehow transmogrified into a job, rather than a person who I love and, even though this is difficult to admit, I love him more at a distance (both geographical and temporal). In other words, I love him the way he was and I find it difficult now to reconjure that.
He and I talk about these things which I realize probably seems strange, but he has always been my mentor, my confidante, my best friend so sometimes I tell him about how difficult he is as if he is another person, and he gives me advice.
“You will always be my hero,” I say, “but now Parkinson’s has got you.”
“I can get better,” he always says.
“No you can’t,” I say.
“But I love you,” he says.
And, just as I leave him at the nursing lodge, I say the words too – “I love you” – then I drive back home, sometimes teary, sometimes nostalgic, but always relieved, guiltily relieved to hand him over – my hero.
The picture below is of our two male golden pheasants who nearly fought to the death over a female and the one on the right, Phoenix 1, won the battle and now Phoenix 2 has been banished. I don’t know why, but it seems an appropriate picture for this post.
jmgoyder 