Once in a while I like to pretend she never got sick.

You know what, that feels selfish, so let me try that again. Sometimes, I wish she wasn’t as sick as she is. I realize that still sounds bad, but you have to give me the mulligan on that. The weight of this illness is enough to make anyone buckle, I don’t care who you are.

I’ve heard everyone tell me how strong we are to keep “battling.” In a support group five years ago someone told me to welcome Jesus into my heart so I could find healing and peace.

“Frank, if Jesus wanted to heal us he would have done it. If he wanted us at peace he would never have let her get sick. So take your Bible and shove it up your ass, you myopic twat.”

I crunched the empty paper cup that had remnants of coffee and threw it into the trash barrel.

Today things had started looking dour again. I awoke as usual to a resting wife and checked her breathing while I put my thick-framed glasses on. Then I moved to the bathroom and before I could even contemplate a shower I saw the dining room table at the end of the hall and my hazy brain was snapped awake with a flood of stressors, like a wave of cold water being dumped on me.

The dining table wasn’t really a table anymore so much as a storage place for the mountain of bills. My instinct was to dive right in when she called for me with a push of the button. My wife’s voice was raspy and strained first thing in the morning. This is a sign of a potentially rough day, but I was used to those at this point.

With a push of the call button in order to respond, I informed her I’ll be just a minute as I glance back at a more recent pile of papers, this one on our desk next to the window in the den.

You see, it’s not that the pile is intimidating. It’s simply irritating. No one’s life should be coming to a standstill because of a mere traffic citation. No one’s future should be on the line because of a missed bill in a barrage of medical expenses. In this moment, I’m irritated that somewhere in these piles is a little ticket for running a red light - running home late with prescriptions and groceries, and I can’t pay it off by the deadline to avoid a day in court. That pile swallowed it and after hours of searching, nearly ready to scream, I am about ready to just simply give up.

She has an appointment tomorrow and there is absolutely “no way to do both.” Jacki’s doctor appointment is of more importance, of course, and as of late I have had no help from anyone to get her to the appointments. I’m struggling to find a way to get her where she needs to be and me into traffic court.

Jacqueline has stepped it up and is now ringing the bell from the other room. In a huff I now have to abandon my search, picking up the mostly empty hamper at the top of the basement stairs and I try to take it, slowly, gathering myself before I walk casually into our room.

Showing frustration, especially right at the start of the day, never goes well for anyone in this household. Gentle is always best. Otherwise the day can eat you up whole.

I put a deep purple tee-shirt from the floor into the hamper and some of my jeans and socks as well as I head down the hall. I pass the door to the finished basement, my personal office. I long to slide down there but now is not the time, obviously.

I head over to her bedside.

“I don’t want to use the machine today,” she tells me, her voice cracking like a pubescent’s. It wasn’t necessarily a symptom of the disease, but it was a natural reaction to being in bed without water at her bedside all night. Or rather, not being able to reach for the water. She never wakes me up when she needs it.

I look to my right as I tuck my arm under her head and pull her upright, glancing at her dresser. The water was half gone. It had probably evaporated with the air conditioning running all night which would also explain how her throat is now dried up. She’ll be scratching at it for the rest of the day.

This is my fault.

The machine she refers to is of course the gigantic contraption that was rigged into the house to assist her with getting in and then out of bed. This modern medical marvel helps her to lift her legs for her and even to raise her upper body as well with some sort of lever-system and counter weight balances. It is all very complex and I had let the men who installed it explain it to her as well. I mostly skimmed the manual and for the most part, only asked the questions of where the emergency off switch was. Each day I will just push it into place as she tells me and follow her instructions.

However, today is not shaping out into that sort of a day.

She’s feeling independent. Don’t get me wrong, this is good, but on a day when I am struggling with finding a traffic citation, I could use a more passively disabled wife today.

My thoughts flicker to the whiskey bottle the boys bought me for Christmas. Did I finish it yet?

Once she is comfortably sitting upright, she begins to scratch her throat while she continually tries to clear it with beastial coughs. I try my best to ignore it.

“I don’t blame you for not using the machine.” I smile to her and help her button her morning blouse back up then swing her legs around and put them over the edge of the bed. “I would want my big strong husband to pull me out of bed, too.”

She tries to smile but it’s meek.

“That’s definitely part of it.”

I smile back. I’m not sure how it looks to her.

I get her purple wheel chair, which she has recently plastered with our son’s band’s bumper stickers. She’s awfully proud of his quasi-fame in the Bay Area of California. Personally, I think he should’ve finished out Berkley and started teaching, but Jacqueline believes in dream chasing and I’ll never be anything if not a dream squasher. Not to the kids, at least.

I roll the fluorescent purple chair to the side of our king sized medical bed. I first offer up my arm to which she shakes her head at. With that signal, I instead gently put each of her feet into the stirrups as she slides herself in on her own. Her resilience to the disease still leaves me impressed (when it does not absolutely confound me).

“I’m going to take a shower,” she states rather plainly.

“I know.”

I do, it’s all part of the routine. A necessary one at that. Her body needs to be bathed twice a day, sometimes as many as three times if she’s bed-bound. It’s for her health, not some illusion of cleanliness. I have always been available to her when she needs a shower, should anything go wrong. On those rare occasions where she does need me, she weeps. It’s always the simplest things that prove to be the hardest. When she can’t complete a task as easy as bathing, it’s unnerving. For both of us.

“You’re going into the office today?” she asks in between hissing-coughs in an attempt to clear her throat. She wheels awkwardly towards the bathroom, her wheels silently treading on the polished, pet-scratch-free, hardwood floors.

“No,” I say as I straighten up the bed. “the basement office should be fine. Cormac’s got the floor today.”

“Good. I don’t think I’ll be able to make lunch today and I’m worried about the bird feeders, I think I heard the squirrels knock one over last night.” She sighs and uses the support railing to pull herself up while she closes the door.