Modern Romance

Another brush with death or, as we call it, Monday.

First, a confession. We are at a medical - ski conference in Utah. “Jesus," I hear you cry, “He’s whining about being unable to cross a room and now he’s at some swank resort in Utah?" In my defense, shut up. Look, we booked this “conference” six months ago, when I was still alive. Cyn deserves this trip.  She was anticipating a break from the daily drudge. I had two choices. I could stay in West Hartford, alone but for TV and trips for donuts with L. My other option was to travel to Utah, attend conferences with Cyn and play with my doctor friends.

Mounting a trip in my condition resembles planning the D Day invasion, but with more complaining. We mailed my enteral feedings to the hotel, had American Airlines wheelchair me across various airports, and arranged for portable oxygen. Park city is at 7000 feet. I saw my pulmonary doctor, Sam, who said I could go if I brought my own oxygen in case of an emergency.

We arrived at Salt Lake City, despite my vow to shun red states until the national nightmare ends. Unhappily, Colorado’s Telluride is at 10,000 feet. My personal dead zone.

         I thought I might occasionally need extra oxygen. Unhappily, I have had to use the oxygen constantly. Yesterday, I was reading in bed and the oxygen generator died. Shit. Now I die again.

Cyn is happily skiing somewhere. I am alone in our hotel room. Do I bother her? I figure I have 60 minutes before passing out. I don’t want to annoy her,

I wait. I wait and wait. I finally call Cyn when I decide she has enough time to return before I pass out. I could have called 911 but that would result in a hospital stay. “I am on my way,” she says, clearly disappointed. Suddenly the oxygen machine restarts. I am safe. I call and urge her to remain on the mountain to ski little longer. She happily complies.

I have avoided discussing Cynthia in my blogs, I want to preserve her privacy in a difficult time.  The disease has altered our relationship. I’ve mentioned my wild, so-far undying gratitude. But we have changed.  First, we can’t have any sort of angry, door slamming argument. We haven’t had a history of domestic turbulence in the past, but I no longer have the option of slamming the door and driving off into the night. I would survive about 12 hours without medical intervention. Most of my supplies are at home.  I’d die in about three days away from Cyn, who has developed a sixth sense when my sugar is 23 and I am about to lapse into hypoglycemic coma.

So, we cannot fight.  I have become “super beta.”

          In the past, if Cyn provoked me, I’d have the option to escalate the argument. Now, provocation is futile, one must never bite the hand that feeds my G tube. 

         As is usually the case, most marital arguments begin over simple silly issues, a forgotten appointment or a broken glass without sufficient clean up. I’ve lapsed into a vaguely supercilious demeanor, in which my apologies are followed by backing down.  I have become Canada.

         We keep hoping I will improve. Anything is possible but I’m starting to worry Cyn may be stranded with a cripple.  I want to be a pleasant life partner. I owe her my life, many times over but that gratitude is robbing us of one important aspect of our marriage, conflict.  Conflict is that frisson of tension that keeps us on our toes and adds energy to conversation, which is 99.5% of any good marriage. 

         When we married, I loved Cyn’s strong will. She is her litigator father’s daughter   I also know she doesn’t care for my new passive behavior.  I should grow a pair, I guess, but first I’d need to grow a new pair of lungs, and a suit of healthy skin. Until that time, I’ll stand down.