Yarrow (angelweed) wrote,

Marsha's fine today. When I see her so alert, I wonder if I'm overreacting in the times I see her sick. (When I see her sick, I wonder if I'm in denial in the times I see her doing well.)

She doesn't remember last night at all, which is good in that the memory doesn't interfere with her cheerfulness. Makes me feel alone here, though. (Something runs scolding through my head, that this is her disease, and what a bit of self-dramatization it is to say I'm alone here. And it is her disease. And I do feel alone.)

It used to be that she was Marsha, who had M.S., and liked me not least because I didn't jump up to do things for her that she could do for herself perfectly well -- or haltingly and with difficulty, for that matter; not unless she asked for help. As time went on there were more and more things I did automatically, and I always was there to give her emotional support when she was in the hospital. I never realized just how much I depended on her strength until the first time I saw her barely conscious.

That's no longer the shock it was, though it's still and always frightening. But last night she was lucid enough that I would have thought she'd remember.

She got angry with me at one point for leaving to keep a phone date with a friend -- who, as it happened, wasn't there anyway. So there I was, angry with Marsha for being angry at me, and angry at my friend for exactly the same reason Marsha was angry with me. And angry at the gods for dropping this nasty blatant little lesson on me. You'd think the divine could be a bit more subtle.

When I got back from my fruitless quest Marsha had forgotten getting angry.
Tags: marsha

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