So I heard everything they told me, and I read all of the support group stuff.
I heard a mythical monkey whisper in my ear. . . nothing. He was too exhausted inside to say a word.
This Alzheimer’s shit makes zombies.
And no, I don’t mean the old lady – she’s not yet a zombie.
She may be somewhere in 1968 or 1969, but she’s certainly lucid in that year. I just wish all of her colleagues at the metaphorical bridge table [you know, all of my dead relatives] could whisper to her to sleep a little more and stop being whacko – just stick to 1968.
Of course, I also wish that I were 32 again, and that I hadn’t xxxxxxxxxxx with yyyyy in that hallway, or zzzzzzzz’d her that one time.
Oh, and I wish I had a new motorcycle.
And maybe a train set.
Anyway, the zombie is me. This caretaker thing is soul-killing, romance-murdering, energy-sapping crap.
Oh, yeah – and unwanted.
There, I vented.
Um, what exactly did that get me?
Oh yeah, it let me explain why I have fewer pictures of my kids, and don’t join the muleboy in talking about the Nationals.
Speaking of the Muleboy, his fascination with his caulk is starting to wear on me. . . .
oh, clever I am