Land of Forgetfulness

I learned the only way to curb the overpowering rages was to make him look me in the eyes and declare he was right – absolutely RIGHT. There’d be calm for a few days, then another conflict would surface. I mourned anew that these old conflicts alone were his memories.

In the meantime our day-to-day life continued. I attempted to adhere to life as we knew it, but life as we knew it was no more. A glaring example was our weekly shopping trip.

During one drive to the mall, Andy asked, “Are we taking the truck in for inspection? How come you don’t let me drive the truck anymore? Oh shit! We’re in the car, not the truck.”

He rambled on with several outbursts of caution when a car approached and sporadically made urgent screams of “Stop!” and “Go!” at lights. Finally, we arrived at the mall parking lot. “Oh no! I’m wearing my bedroom slippers. Go back home, I’ve got to get my shoes.” I tried a calming voice, “You’ll be just fine, your slippers look just like Birkenstocks. Let’s do a few minutes of shopping before we head home.”

We went in with him mumbling and cursing, shuffling in his bedroom slippers. In a loud voice, he asked, “Why are we here? Where’s the bathroom? I need a bathroom. Now!” Still trying for calm, I answered, “It’s at the other end of the store. Look, here’s the RID-X you wanted.” He put three boxes in the cart. Well, at least his theory “if one is good, three is better” hasn’t changed, I thought. I tried to put one back on the shelf. At $6 a box, I’d be short of cash for bread and milk.

He firmly restored the third box back into the cart. “Let me make some decisions. You boss my every move. Leave me alone! Where’s the bathroom?” I had to escort him to the door, knowing he’d get lost and wander the whole store looking for me, or worse wander the parking lot searching for the car while I frantically searched for him. It had happened before. I had learned to never leave his side—too many desperate searches.

After a long wait, he emerged from the bathroom. “I’ve got to go out to the car. I’ll see you there. I pissed the front of my pants.” He started for the front door. He could never find our car in the parking lot. But with the cart full of unpaid groceries, I couldn’t follow him out the door. HIGH NERVES!

“Here, you push the cart. I’m tired. It’ll cover up your pants,” I said. Reluctantly, he turned from the door and jerked the handle of the cart from me. The next hurdle was to get his credit card. Yesterday at his check-up at the hospital, he had had to show his insurance and Medicare cards. With his wallet a total jumble of over fifty cards, mostly expired or useless, he fumbled at least ten minutes while the account clerk waited impatiently. He took all of them out and went through them one-by-one, several times. I spotted the insurance card in the shuffle and grabbed it, then reached in and retrieved the Medicare card. He jerked the wallet away, and swatted my hand as I handed the cards to the clerk. Cards flew and spewed onto the floor, but she was able to retrieve them. He went into a loud screaming rant at me as she copied and returned them. He shoved all the cards haphazardly in with his bills. At the time, I’d thought, Oh well, it’s a hospital; she’s probably seen this before. But we were in a mall now, not the hospital. After much arguing, dropping some cards on the floor, handing me his driver’s license by mistake, we found the credit card.

Check-out accomplished, we headed out the door. When I stopped to say “hello” to some neighbors in the parking lot, Andy wandered off in the opposite direction of the car. I quickly excused myself to catch up. He argued loudly as I tried to head him in the direction of the car. Then it started raining. Once we reached the car, he insisted on unlocking the lift with his key, refusing the automatic buttons. Groceries loaded, he pushed the cart to the corral and accidently set off the car’s panic button. Then he pulled out his wallet and announced he had decided to organize his wallet. A few cards fell down into a nearby puddle on the pavement. In bedroom slippers, wet pants and cards falling out, he screamed at me for being bossy. I picked up the cards, making sure none were left behind, opened the car door, and forced him in. l was exhausted. Another hurdle: forcing him to buckle up.

On the drive home, Andy gave constant instructions: “Go! It’s green! Swerve! Are you trying to get us killed?!” All screamed at a frantic pitch.

Lessons learned in that one outing: always check to make sure Andy is wearing shoes when we head from home, get my own credit card, have a minimal list, and stick to it. Most important on the list, get my own credit card. Also, very important, first and foremost, remember that beneath the petulant child, somewhere in there, is my dearly-loved, brilliant Andy. Beloved beyond belief and totally due my respect and love.