I’m sitting here on Cape Cod and the rain is blowing sideways, straight ways and relentlessly. It’s May but the day is dark and so is Bette’s mood. Foul all around. And not nice foul, like foul balls in Fenway Park on a hot summer night.
The bickering during the last 24 hours has been proportionate to what I see as the evil cancer soldiers marching more aggressively through Bette’s body, looking for new places to set camp and making a mess wherever they go. The more territory they claim this week, the more irritated she becomes. Rightly so. But still…
Though she can barely stay awake more than a few hours and the cancer has spread to her brain Bette boldly stated yesterday that she wanted to see the oncologist and make sure it was OK to start driving.
“Drive?” I asked incredulously. “How could you even think about that. Look at the state you’re in. You could hurt someone driving.”
“I don’t want to discuss it with you. But I am going to talk to the doctor about it. Now call the auto repair shop and get the car back today.”
“Why today? I have my car.”
“I want the car and I want to see the doctor about driving.”
Oy.
Later it was about the trash.
“Why are you using those trash bags,” asked Bette. “Just use these grocery bags.”
“But those are too small. They don’t hold enough and they’re flimsy,” I shot back.
“You’re being ridiculous. Use these.”
Today Bette is laid low, unable to do much at all but sleep. The foul mood has ebbed. I suppose yesterday’s irritation was all about fighting the new cancer soliders. Today she’s accepting them.
It’s still raining.
