Thursday, December 20, 2018

I hate this

Henry called again last night. He had a fight with Reg, which ended with him having to get a ride from his friend, Phyllis, who scolded him. And that turned into a two-hour call to me.

He can't live in Key West anymore. No one supports him. Everyone treats him as though the accident was his fault. Everyone insists he has a brain injury. He wants a divorce.

It's exhausting.

Especially when he begins to rehash the accident and his time in the hospital. I tell him what I always tell him -- I don't drive, I can't begin to speculate what happened at the moment of impact; he was not put into a coma for two weeks for his ankle, and if he wants to know about his brain, he should talk to his local, trusted GP who has all of his medical records.

I told him that if he really wants out, he has to be smart. The house they both live in is in his name. Is he prepared to throw Reg out and sell it? Is he single-mindedly devoted to rehabilitating his ankle, so he can move to another city and get a new job? That seemed to distract him and refocus him. He wants to give Reg another chance. He wants to save his marriage.

I looked at the phone. We had just hit the 1:44 mark. The remaining 20 minutes were really rather pleasant. He can't wait to see me Saturday. Then I had stomach cramps and diarrhea. It might have been the greasy, cheesey lunch I had with my nephew. But the stress of this call, and my upcoming visit, didn't help.

I know it's only been two months. I know he's doing the best he can, trying to work through the horror of what happened to him and the aftermath. I know it is a testament to our friendship that he turns to me.

I am not a shrink. I am not a doctor. I am just a friend who loves him. I feel inadequate and overwhelmed.


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