voyeurism

I renewed my commitment to writing and that worked for three days. But I took the last four off. Why do I do that?

I'll tell you why... I told my family that I had starting writing again. And they're the reason that I'm afraid to write. Let me say more about that.

The reason that I wanted to write down my thoughts about grief was because I couldn't find a book that resonated with me. Don't get me wrong; there are shelves filled with books on grief. There are memoirs from caregivers that could keep me busy for a year. The book that I'm looking for would be: written by someone who is caring for his or her spouse and... whose spouse does not have Alzheimer's disease and... whose spouse is not fighting cancer.

Why the narrow search? The journey of someone caring for his or her parents is different than someone caring for a spouse. While Alzheimer's disease is horrible i is really different than multiple sclerosis. And people fighting cancer... well, that's just it - they're "fighting" cancer. I have yet to hear a neurologist say, "we're gonna beat this thing, Pete!" It's not that they don't want to find a cure for MS. Believe me, they do! It's that there isn't a cure for MS. And Pete's body is actually fighting itself so there is no punching allowed. So much of the caring for a person with MS is about accepting and loving and embracing and shrugging and sleeping and hoping that tomorrow will be better.

The image of fighting isn't one I'm looking for. I have spent hours, days, months and maybe even the whole first two years of his diagnosis questioning and wondering about a symptom of MS that has no rhyme or reason... it's just a symptom of MS. Say Hello to it. Cry a little. Have another cup of coffee.

All that to say... a memoir written by someone caring for a parent or someone fighting cancer or someone suffering through Alzheimer's disease does not share my journey. And I longed desperately for a book that I could point to and say, "Look, this person knows what I'm going through." His wife is sick. Or she gets angry. He's sad. She's depressed. He feels hopeless and alone sometimes. She faces mini-deaths every day.

I know why this book isn't written. And it is the very reason that keeps me from writing.

My spouse will read this book. He's not dying like a parent might be. My family and friends will read this book and while they know that I'm hurting do I really want them to see this much of me?

The problem with a book by a caregiver to her spouse who suffers from multiple sclerosis is that it's an incredibly vulnerable endeavor. And while I have desperately wanted to see into other people's lives so that I don't feel so vulnerable, I'm not sure that I'm comfortable with others seeing my vulnerability.