The discontent that snowballed started early in the day, when I took my little dog to the vet. I kept nearly falling over, stumbling and side-stepping. I took a deep breath and when I exhaled I didn’t tell the vet and the technician that I had HD. Instead, I just let them think what they chose to think.
It got worse when I got an email from someone I’d offered to provide administrative help to on a regular basis, wanting to meet and talk about the arrangement. I have been failing them. I know they want to meet because of the fact that I am failing them.
I know it is not my fault. I am not competent enough to do what I thought I could do. But I felt the same shame and guilt about it that I felt pre-diagnosis when I screwed things up. I revisited that place of disgusted amazement with my own inability to function and its negative impact on others and I stayed there.
By this time, it was dinner time, and by the end of it, I was wound up tightly. I was overwhelmed and my feelings were starting to leak out.
That’s when we got the phone call.
Someone, a woman, had gone to the highest point of the Neuse River bridge and jumped off. That news was more than I could bear, because not long ago, I had thoughts of jumping off of that same bridge.
I collapsed into a sobbing blob and forced myself to go into the bedroom and take my nightly dose of tranquilizers.
My husband came up to check on me and asked what I had been thinking about when I got so upset and I told him that I thought it was supposed to be me jumping off the bridge instead of that woman. He held me until the medication started taking effect and I’d calmed down, then he left me to rest.
Not long afterwards, my littlest boy, who is 10 years old and the size of a baby impala, jumped in my bed and gave me the world’s biggest hug and told me that he loved me.
I started blubbering again. “I am so sorry that you have to see me this way.”
“That’s alright,” he said, “I just think about Unicorns.”