Don't Cry Over Spilled Bong Water

Yesterday morning.  The day starts late.  Gray.  Misting.  I begin by writing up the long blog post to update people about our week.  Writing is therapeutic for me.  Writing in a public space and when people are waiting for updates about my terminally ill husband sometimes feels like one more thing on the to-do list, even if it is therapeutic to do it.  It especially feels like one more thing when there is a lot to write. 

I feel better when it is done.  Then I decide to wake Ron up, since it is noon and he has not yet taken his morning medications.  He is grumpy, in spite of having slept well.  He is sick of being dependent on me to get him in and out of bed and to and from the bathroom and in and out of his wheelchair and in and out of the house to smoke and in and out of a change of clothes.  He is having a hard time adjusting to being more dependent. 

When all the necessities of the morning ritual have been accounted for and he is back in bed and has taken some extra morphine to deal with kidney and liver pain, we have an honest conversation about how he is feeling.  Mainly he talks in terms of his mental state, which has not been good for the past week or so.  So much anger and sadness.  So little hope, after being such an optimistic trooper for so long.  He is just sick of it.  He tells me he is fresh out of his supply of optimism.  I understand.  I always knew this would happen.  And I believe it won’t last.  He will feel better again someday.  Just not today.

I ask what I can do to help.  He says nothing.  I ask if he wants to eat.  He says no.  I ask if there is anyone he would like to see, anyone who could make him feel better since I do not seem to be helping.  He says he doesn’t know.  He says he doesn’t know of anything at all that would be helpful and apologizes for his “funk” and says he hopes it doesn’t rub off on me.  He tells me things I won’t repeat, but I am glad we had the conversation.  I better understand where he is at now and what he is feeling. 

In the midst of our deep talk, the mailman pulls into our driveway.  We love our mailman and lately he has made many deliveries to our door with packages too large for the mailbox.  He is one more connection to the outside world and we like wondering what he will bring each time he comes up.  I go to greet him, smiling as I note a box from Amazon that will contain some new summer Teva’s for me, along with bills and Ron’s National Geographic.  While I am coming back into the house, I hear a small crash.

I run into the living room and ask Ron what happened.  He tells me no big deal, he just knocked something off his hospital tray table, which he has pulled halfway over his bed.  I look to see that it is, in fact, a big deal.  He has knocked his bong off and upside down onto his bedding.

***

For those who have not followed Ron’s blog or Facebook posts, you may not know that he was approved for the Michigan Medical Marihuana Program and has a card making it legal for him to smoke pot.  Initially, he was using marijuana many times throughout the day for relief from nausea and to gain appetite, especially while undergoing chemotherapy.  The side effects have proven, for him, to be less than prescribed antinausea pills and it has been fun for such a straight-laced guy to venture into the world of weed . . . legally, of course.  His use has significantly declined lately, but he still finds it helpful to get an appetite and keeps a bong at bedside. 

The bong he has now is supposed to be better at keeping water contained in the event that it gets tipped over.  There were too many previous incidents with the old bong of it getting knocked over and the water seeping into things – the carpet, the couch, bedding, etc.  For anyone who has never smelled old bong water, it is one of the worst smells.  It is musty and rancid and sharp all at once, along with the trace smell of marijuana resin.  The smell seems to cling to whatever it touches and never wants to leave.  I find it impossible to get the smell out and have been known to throw away towels used in the clean-up process.  So, a few months ago, Ron got a short, squat glass bong with a rubber stopper on the top to minimize the spills.  Yesterday, however, it failed when water seeped down the tubing he inhales from and out of the bowl that holds the pot.

***

“No big deal?  It is a big deal,” I exclaim, as I see the bong water seeping into the comforter that was just washed two days ago.  I pick up the damp glass, smelling the water as it soaks into my skin and knowing I will still be smelling it when I go to bed at night.  I tear the comforter off the bed and see that it has also soaked through the fresh pajama pants I just changed him into that morning, and through his tight, black compression socks.  I lift his leg and see that the fitted sheet is damp. 

I hurriedly work on getting Ron up and out of bed, explaining that I must wash everything, again, now.  I am asking what happened and how it is that I walk away for just a few short minutes to get the mail and he has an accident like this.  I am telling him that if he would just wait for me to return and ask for help, these things wouldn’t happen.  I am feeling frustrated that one more thing has been added to my plate.  My stress tolerance is low and it makes me a complete bitch.

As I help Ron up, he says, “Ouch.”  I realize I am being too rushed, too rough.  I instantly feel shame.  I do not want to hurt him or stress him.  He is apologizing.  He feels bad.  He didn’t mean to make more work for me.  He was just trying to sit up and accidentally knocked into his table.  I feel like a complete ass, making such a big deal over a little mishap.  I should feel gratitude that it was not something more serious.

I get everything into the washing machine.  I take a warm washcloth and some Dr. Bronner’s Magic Soap to get the bong water smell off Ron’s leg before changing him into new pajamas.  I wash him gently, both legs and feet, and rub moisturizing lotion on his dry, cracked skin.  I try to make this a pleasant activity, but Ron says it just makes him feel cold.  We are both apologizing to one another.  Once the mess is cleaned, I feel immense guilt at reacting so sternly.  I start to cry.

Then one of us (I can’t remember who) adjusts the old milk adage to say, “Don’t cry over spilled bong water,” and we both start laughing.  We are laughing and crying and requesting forgiveness from the other.  We are forgiving and hugging. 

Once this event is over, the day seems to get lighter.  There is less tension in the house.  Ron’s dark mood is a shade brighter.  We laugh more.  We want to be together.  We snack and watch a show.  Then I crawl up onto the other end of his hospital bed, where I can sit with my back against the wall and look at him.  We stay like this for several hours, him watching a show on his iPod and me reading books.  Every so often, we glance up and make eye contact or wink or mouth our ‘I love you’s.  It ends up not being a very pleasant day, spilled bong water and all.