Multiple Sclerosis has held my husband prisoner for many years now. Completely paralyzed except for his left arm.
I've learned that sometimes when Phillip is lying perfectly quiet and very very still with his eyes closed, he isn't sleeping at all. He's temporarily detached from his surroundings. He's speeding down scenic back roads, feeling the wind blowing hard against his face, riding the motorcycle he almost bought sixty years ago and still regrets not owning today.
Yesterday, I tiptoed around his bed, whispering, "Phillip, you asleep?"
He opened one eye. "I'm busy."
Eye went shut.
I kept on. "You riding your motorcycle?"
"No, I'm doing something a lot more important."
What, I wondered silently, could be more important than riding that beloved non-existant vehicle he's so wild about?
What was going on in that damnyankee mind of his?
"Phillip, what ARE you doing? Tell me."
Both eyes flew open. "I'm killing somebody."
oh ...
well ...
okay ...
"Who?" I insisted on knowing.
"My ex-wife," he calmly announced, "and I'm loving every minute of it."
ohmygodohmygodohmygod ...
Here's the story I finally got out of him ...
When he and his ex-wife were young, Phillip built a wonderful house with his own two hands. He built it slowly ... thoughtfully ... carefully ... He did everything just right. He loved every board and every nail and every shingle. And the floors ... He especially loved the floors.
When their divorce happened thirty-something years ago, his wife got the house and Phillip found himself out on the curb with his belongings in a Kroger sack.
He's still holding a grudge against the judicial system.
Recently, there was breaking news on TV about laminated wood floors, installed in millions of houses, that had Just now been proven to contain cancer causing agents, and that's the kind of floors Phillip's ex-wife is still walking so proudly across today. Shoot! maybe even barefoot.
Phillip can just SEE the cancer cells crawling up her legs. She'll be dead in no time. He's so happy.
Before he got half-way through this latest fantasy, I was standing in the middle of the floor, looking up at the ceiling, waving both arms to gain quick attention, hollering, "Don't listen to him, God. He doesn't mean it. I swear he doesn't mean it. Please don't strike him dead."
So far he's still alive ...
But only because I intervened for him.
He owes me.
email: MelindaGerner@yahoo.com
