I'm not on hiatus, though the lack of posting might indicate otherwise. I'm laying low. I've just kind of... slowed down, on purpose, in my social life. It's a combination of a lot of things, I suppose.
Work hit a fever pitch this week with elections coming up on Tuesday, a bunch of championship games right after the other, a giant project we've got in the works for the start of January, and a series of scandals involving corrupt police officers, a sexually abusive priest, and an infestation of rats that were exterminated and died in the ceiling tiles of a local high school.
Oh, and yesterday I got pelted by wind and high waves on the banks of the Hudson River and then had two back-to-back games in the freezy, freezy cold. While still sort of wet. Why am I grown up with a job, again? Why am I not 15, huddled in the stands with my friends and then leading everyone back to my house to get in the hot tub? Mmm? Ah, yes. Paycheck. Riiight.
So I'm exactly not reclusive right now, but I'm blowing off a friend's post-marathon party right now to lay around with my laptop and work on things for wedding clients. The part where I get to work hard for my clients while wearing pajamas in a bed with three- yeah, three- snoring fuzzy companions is absolutely one of the perks of these jobs.
Brad is in the hospital again. He is in so much pain. I had a long talk with Jason last night, and all I can come up with is, "This is so unfair." Wait, I'm going to say it again: This. Is. So. Unfair. Those four hollow words don't even remotely being to describe how I really feel about the fact that this person I love so much is hurting this way.
Brad has just been beating the odds- up-down-left-right all-around-us-everywhere for so long. It feels downright ungrateful to feel bad myself when he's the one doing all the hard work. There are so many things to be grateful for, not the least of which are the extra years- heck, the extra decades- we've gotten with him. The opportunities he's stolen right out of the snapping jaws of his diagnosis- 10 years in love with his dream girl, law school, vacations, friends, an adorable nephew who pushes his wheelchair around the house even though he's barely taller than the wheels.
Gah. I am really, really angry, helpless, and bitter (but in a kind of numb, hard-to-describe way) about the pain he's in now. I can't help it.
He hasn't said anything, but we think it's painful for him to be hugged. It's dangerous, too, with some of the tubes he's got when he's hospitalized, and it more or less boils down to this: He lets me hug him- so, so gently, just the lightest pressure of palms and arms held apart in a cautious ballerina's first position- for my benefit. For my comfort, not his.
Muscular dystrophy is sometimes called "the disease that eats your heart." What they don't tell you is that it eats your loved ones' hearts, too.