You're not crazy

Next month a book called Outside the Wire is being released. I wrote a piece in that book. I'm pretty proud of it, not least because I am the only non-veteran in the book. I'm thrilled, in some small way, to be giving voice to caregivers of veterans.

As the release draws near, I've been thinking about how far we've come since I wrote the essay appearing in that book. It seems to me we're doing a lot better now, for a variety of reasons. One reason is my kids are getting older and, at four and seven, no longer need as much close supervision as they did when they were two and five. So if my husband leaves the kids in the bathtub, it is normal, not dangerous. Another reason is that we receive a caregiver stipend and social security disability now, which takes a lot of pressure off financially. So if my husband spends too much money on things we don't need, we still have money for necessities. Another reason is that sometimes it even seems like my husband might actually be doing better.

I struggle with that. I wonder if my husband will ever be able to function normally. After all, he presents well. Several people have asked me what exactly is his disability. Days will go by when he seems really rather normal, even to me, even though we spend 20 of every 24 hours together. I start to question myself, could he work? Could he get a normal job? Could I? Could I let him take care of the home stuff while I earn a living? He has remembered to get the kids to school on time, take his vitamins, and do the dishes, all in the same morning. That's surely a good sign.

Then he will pick up a cup we've had for years and ask where we got it.

It is these moments that define us. The ones where my jaw opens and I do not cry. I do not cry. Crying will not help. I just have to help him get back on track. You do not cry when you are helping someone who is lost find their way back. You remain calm, because it is possible to find the path again. Panic will only lead to more panic. I have to be the one to normalize this.

"You brought me that cup last night when you got me water."

"No. Our cups don't have designs on them."

"Yes, they do. Come on, let's look at them."

Now we are walking to the kitchen from our bedroom. The strange cup has been left on the windowsill. The pattern on the pink and purple cups is just etching on plastic. It is only visible in the right light. I am justifying this for him. We pull the other cups of the four cup set out of the dishwasher and he stares at one of them, turning it around in his hands as if he does not know what it is. After a moment, I take the cup from him and put it back in the dishwasher. It is on the dry cycle. We walk back to the bedroom.

"How long have we had those cups?"

"A few years."

"I wash those cups. You can feel the pattern."

"You're not crazy."

"No?" He looks at me incredulously. I know he cannot understand how he has not felt a raised pattern on four cups in two years of washing them. He is the only one who washes dishes. He is an artist. He notices things. I understand though.

"You are just oblivious. You pay attention to other things. You're not going crazy."

He isn't going crazy. He does not notice the pattern on the cups because he is looking for home invaders. As he stands at the sink washing dishes, I am sure he would notice the slightest movement on the neighbor's roof through the kitchen window. He would notice someone in the yard. He would protect us from the worst case scenario. He is too busy protecting us to notice a bit of shiny raised plastic.

We really haven't come that far. He is not any better. I am better. I have learned how to cope. I have learned how to patiently walk my husband through the maze of his mind. His mind is still a maze though. He is not getting better. I am just used to it.