Livin' and the alternative: PAIN, PAIN-GO AWAY

I’m embarrassed telling you this story about the strangeness of my  husband, but am going ahead with it anyhow. He was a hider, par excellence, a faker, my heart breaker.

 

Ray Milland playing a sotted to his gills alcoholic, hid his whiskey bottles in ridiculous places. In one scene his wife finds a bottle in the glass ceiling light fixture. My husband, Larry, stored that info is his smokey brain. Whiskey was nothing. 4 packs of cigs a day had him trapped in their web. There were ash trays in every room in our house, even the laundry room where I never saw him lift a finger to take clean clothes upstairs. The stench of cigarettes seeped into the furniture, the drapes, clothes. Opening windows gave no relief. Holding my tongue, my temper, caused arguments. Letting loose caused arguments. There was no winning on my side and none on Larry’s.

 

In July 1948 the sneak, the hider, had bad chest pains but didn’t bother telling me. Our family doctor notified me that Larry had had a mild hart attack and needed bed rest for at least two weeks. I was there for him, every moment. I threw out all of the ashtrays, fixed his meals, made his bed, gave him peace and quiet by staying out of our room as much as possible. Did a bad heart cause eye trouble? I never heard of it but Larry told me not to turn on our bedroom ceiling light because it strained his eyes. After three evenings of babying him, I switched on the light and at once noticed the room was not as bright as usual. I brought in a new 75 watt bulb, balanced myself on our mattress and reached for the bulbs. Cellophane crinkled. The light in my head lit up. 2 full  packs of Lucky Strike plus a ½ empty one were stashed above my head.  I flipped, I yelled, I threw them at Larry. He hustled to pick them up. That nite I left him, went to stay with my mother. Against her good advice, I came home to Larry in the morning.
Nothing had been accomplished. Promises were broken, new hiding places found. On day 12 of Larry’s bed stay, he and his car were gone when I returned from the grocery. First thing I thought of was he had a bad heart attack and the ambulance had taken him to the hospital or the morgue. I died a little. Looking as at ease as a child eating a chocolate sticky apple, he took off his jacket, pajamas and got into bed, declaring he was bored and just had to get some air. I checked his pockets. They were empty. The car trunk had a carton, a damn whole carton of Pall Mall.

 

There was no alternative for me except to call Dr. Sachs who admitted him to Landsdown Hospital when he should have gone to the insane asylum.  His room was semi-private and had the same cigarette smell as our house only much less. ‘Larry, where did you get cigarettes here? You are killing us both.’ The young man in the next bed admitted he gave Larry a pack as he had no idea that it was verboten. I gave it back and got a promise he wouldn’t give away any more.

 

This went on for years. At home there were burned matches in the trash can but no sign of cigarettes. A pocket of Larry’s best sport coat had singe marks. Oh, lord, how miserable we both were. The cigarette battle came to an abrupt end when Larry learned he had cancer, prostate cancer–not heart disease or lung cancer. I always felt he hid cigarettes up his ass.

 

With his many treatments in radiology, later chemo, the taste for everything disappeared. I cared for him, cooked for him, sheltered him, not as a martyr, but as a wife who, in spite of everything, still loved him.  I accompanied him to every oncologist visit, to the radiation unit, sat by his side for hours as chemo slowly dripped into his arm. I held his other hand, gave him hard candies to wet his dry mouth. He was able to eat my chicken soup with noodles and I had a small bowl for him every night, plus rich vanilla ice cream that went down and stayed down. My prayers never reached god’s ears,’ give Larry peace already. Let him go.’ It took another three years before god put his hearing aids in his ears and freed Larry and me.

 

Well, not exactly. Two of my friends asked me why my head was shaking. I couldn’t answer as I was unaware that it was. They added, ‘Your right hand shakes too.’ ‘Thanks a lot, Friends. That’s perfectly wonderful news. Have you been saving this up to tell me for my birthday?’

 

Sleeping became fitful. I was sure, almost sure, I had Parkinson’s,  made an appointment with a well known neurologist. In the busy waiting room, I filled out forms and waited to be called. Other people were couples or grown children with a parent. I was alone. Somebody opened a spigot and my eyes overflowed. Movies of Larry’s suffering, my being there for him 100% thru it all, hit me like a bolt of lightning. I was glad not a soul came over to see what was wrong. All of the Kleenex in my purse  was slop.

 

Finally I was called in, had test after test, my reactions put on a chart.
My mind was only on being alone. I was scared, needed my Larry. I detected a smile on Dr. Moore’s face when he sat down behind his big oak desk. ‘Mrs. Krone, you do not have Parkinson’s. What you have is a familial nerve problem. I sighed deeply but contradicted him. ‘Dr. Moore, I know of no one in my family who had Parkinson’s or this familial nerve thing. How can I have it? The shake stopped by itself in a few weeks. The doctor was wrong and I am alone, with no one to holler at, watch like a hawk–

 

and have nobody to take care of me except my Insurance Home Care Co.