…it sounds quite the life, doesn’t it?
I am home alone with the baby at night, with my own job sitting on the back burner, and my thirties running through my fingers. I have no money; he’s doing his residency again, because the US doesn’t fully recognize international medical training. I can’t pay for home care for my father. I can barely pay my babysitter.
My father is ill with a rare form of brain cancer. But my husband isn’t a neuro-oncologist, so there isn’t anything he can do. And anyway, he isn’t around to do anything; he’s at the hospital.
There isn’t a great deal he can say either. He’s a good-hearted man, or I wouldn’t have married him. But he deals with horror and illness 12 hours a day, and dead babies, and much younger people undergoing tragedies and getting organs cut out and whatnot. So what’s one more? What’s the loss of a father? Things like this happen every day at the hospital, after all, and every day we have on this Earth is a gift, and everyone lives long enough to see their father go, if they are lucky that is.
Someday it’ll be his father; as certain as taxes. Then he’ll understand what it’s like. Or maybe not. His father is a doctor too.
I need some time to exercise. He says he is too tired to watch the baby after 12 hour shifts, so go do my Zumba when the baby is with the babysitter, except he forgets I’m at work then supporting us as somebody has to do it and his resident’s salary doesn’t cut it in this city. He can’t exercise either. His life is about health, and we neglect our own.
He says I have no emotions, that I run on logic. My dad is ill and my mom is caring for him, and my baby is too young to understand words. I have emotions; my grief and my pain and my horror are the Mariana Trench. Just I keep them to myself, and I go to work and smile, while inside I churn in flames like a pig on a spit. I had my parents once. They understood. And the sweet smell of Johnson’s Baby Shampoo is something of a balm, but I wish there were somebody left to listen.