The End of the Rope

When you’re fresh out of prayers and wondering “what’s next?”

Although I am not a person of faith, I pray all the time. Not to a “God,” necessarily because I am fairly certain that he or she has tuned me out, but, to our cats who have “crossed over,” my dead parents and in-laws, to the birds in the sky and the squirrels on the ground…it varies according to my mood. And these days, my mood is all about “doom.”

You see, I don’t pray for myself. Rather, I send up prayers for my husband, who has been struggling with health issues that have only become direr through the years. I pray for him to once again, be the man I married. To be a true partner, who will be physically and emotionally capable of living this life with me. Someone who will help me around the house when I need it, which is most of the time. A three-bedroom, three-and-a-half bathroom home on a huge lot requires a lot of care and upkeep.

I pray for him to be the kind of guy who can once again handle the grocery shopping every now and then so that I don’t have to stand in the frozen food aisle, staring blankly at a package of peas and wondering, yet again, what the hell to make for dinner.

I pray that he can get a decent night’s sleep, as opposed to the constant wakefulness and panic attacks brought on by knowing that this night will be like all the others.

I pray for his team of doctors to wake the fuck up and actually give a damn. See my husband for the human being he is rather than a pill dispensary.

“Let’s see what happens if you take more of this and less of that.”

I pray that one day we won’t dread the sun going down and the moon coming up, burning through our bedroom window like an icy-hot, merciless glare from someone who knows they have you cowed…and on your knees.

Most of all, I pray for the strength to manage the resentment that simmers inside me constantly because I know that will only make me sick and I don’t need another cancer diagnosis. Moreover, if I was to become ill, who would take care of things?

All those prayers. All that time spent looking for answers where there are seemingly, none to be found.

But, I’d be a total asshole if I didn’t admit that my husband has a stressful job with deadlines. He’s well past retirement age and, maybe if I had a gig that actually paid something, he could leave at least that particular stress, by the wayside. I feel guilty for that. When I lost my job over two years ago, I tried very hard to find something else within my field. But I quickly found out that NOBODY wants to hire a writer in her sixties.

That’s tough. I’ll have to suck it up and find whatever I can so my husband can retire.

Mine is not a unique situation. All over the world, loved ones are caring for loved ones. And, although I’m not exactly a “caregiver,” as my husband is not to that point — he holds down a job, he manages — I’m scared, regardless.

I’m someone who needs to feel in control. When I feel helpless, I feel diminished and pissed off.

And I am pissed off, because I don’t understand what is happening or why. There was no need for this. None.

Oh, I have an inkling. Hence the resentment. Because for years I’ve been after my husband to take better care of himself. To eat a little healthier and move a little more.

Nothing I’ve expressed seems to have made a dent. I’ve nagged, pleaded, told him that I don’t know what I would do if something happened to him. Certainly, I’d have to sell the house, and then what? Where would our three cats and I go?

In return, he’s told me that he’ll “change,” he’ll “try.”

What’s to try? You either do something or you don’t. I work out every damned day. He’s told me repeatedly that, because of my drive, my force of will…that I’m an “inspiration.” A “force of nature.” But apparently, I’m not inspiring, or forceful, enough.

Or, maybe I’m just a nagging bitch and I’m the reason for all this. He can’t turn into me, just as I can’t morph into him. We’re two different people.

Admittedly, my husband has suffered with back problems his whole life but being sedentary has only exacerbated that, as well as other issues. And, as trite as it sounds, sometimes, you just have to work through the pain. You do what you can. You make adjustments. Or, that pain takes you by the throat and holds on for dear life.

I’ve suggested hypnotherapy to help get to the bottom of his panic attacks. In response, he told me that he “wouldn’t be able to be put under.”

Okay. “Uncle.”

Please don’t interpret this as spouse bashing. I love my husband and would never disrespect him in that way, but I’m so angry at the fact he’s suffering so, that I can’t breathe.

What am I to do with that anger? Can any of you relate?

As you might expect, my husband’s health has been challenged. Significantly. I won’t go into specifics as that would be an invasion of his privacy, but as I referenced his “team of doctors,” you can draw your own conclusions.

There’s nothing more treacherous for the human body than not being able to sleep. I’m lucky in that the meds I’ve been prescribed help me, but on those nights when I haven’t taken them, and my brain is a live wire, sparking through the wee hours, I can attest that it’s agony.

I worry about my own health. My mental and emotional health has certainly taken a hit. There are days when I don’t see the point of getting out of bed. But again, our cats…

When we wed, I never imagined life this far down the road. Maybe, given my parents’ ongoing contensious and often ugly relationship, I chose not to think too far ahead. But I certainly didn’t imagine this. I thought I’d have a life partner. Someone who would “walk the walk,” for me. And I in turn, for him.

It didn’t work out that way. And now I’m left with the ever-present worry, “what’s next?”

But, even though I realize I’m flip-flopping because this is a hard piece for me to write, none of this is my husband’s fault, any more than it was my fault for getting breast cancer.

I’d like to smack myself upside the head for this, but, “it is what it is.”

Certainly there are those of you here in the same leaky boat. Who can attest that watching someone you love suffer, is unbearable. And maybe, like me, you’re baling you’re heart out, hoping to reach the shoreline before you go under.

How do you cope, otherwise? “Action” is my savior. I work out, write and cuddle with my cats. And I drink too much. I can’t blame that one on my spouse, but all the shit that’s hit the fan hasn’t helped.

There’s a line from the 1997 film, Eve’s Bayou, where one of the pivotal characters, played by Debi Morgan, says, as she reflects upon her life in a conversation with her young niece —

All I know is, there must be a divine point to it all, and it’s just over my head. That when we die, it will all come clear. And then we’ll say, “So that was the damn point.” And sometimes, I think there’s no point at all, and maybe that’s the point. All I know is most people’s lives are a great disappointment to them and no one leaves this earth without feeling terrible pain. And if there is no divine explanation at the end of it all, well… that’s sad.

I don’t consider my life to be a “disappointment,” not by a longshot. I love and am loved. I have food and a roof over my head and I don’t necessarily “need” anything other than my husband to get better…to find it within himself to make the changes he must make to feel like a whole person again. Perhaps finally retiring will help this along. I don’t know.

But, there has to be a “damn point,” right? Wouldn’t we all like to believe so?

Yes, I’m disappointed that certain hopes and dreams haven’t been realized, but that doesn’t make me any different than ninety percent of the population. My failures are on on one else but me. I’ve chased a dream for eighteen years that I thought would come to fruition. It hasn’t, and it’s up to me to know if and when to cut that particular cord. But I’m getting tired of the chase. I am.

Finally, my friends, know that I’m not looking for pity, or even, sympathy. There are those far more deserving. “Understanding” would more than suffice.

Understanding that living one’s life poised for disaster isn’t living.

Would I like things to be otherwise? Hell, yes. When I look at the smiling face of the woman who abuts my profile, I wonder where she’s gotten off to. Sunnier climes? Greener pastures? Or is she just waiting for me to resuscitate her?

Yes. I’d like things to be otherwise. But that’s not going to happen. Not without a miracle. But miracles come in many forms, do they not?

Allowing for the fact that I’m fresh out of prayers…know where I can find one of those miracles? Short of that, how about a longer rope?

© Sherry McGuinn, 2021. All Rights Reserved.

Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times, and numerous other publications. Sherry’s soon-to-be-ex-manager is currently NOT pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.

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