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8. where do we stand? the second conspiracy of silence
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where do we stand? the second conspiracy of silence eight W here do we stand? It took me years to voice this question in this way. Meanwhile I asked other questions. Vague, silly-sounding, perhaps childish and self-centered, groping questions. Suppose I was so tired from lack of sleep that I couldn't think clearly? Or couldn't think at all? Suppose I was like two women in a long-ago dream, encased in glass, seen but not heard, not felt, not even sensed? Then would it be meaningless or ridiculous for friends, relatives, social workers, and sometimes even other well spouses to say, "You have to help yourself"? Suppose it's impossible for us to help ourselves? Suppose not only our bodies but also our minds are encased in glass, or concrete? Suppose we don't have our minds; suppose we're tired or asleep or drugged or dead? Then, God, then would you help us, even though we're not helping ourselves? We had, of course, despite being that tired, already helped ourselves, and we'd helped ourselves to whatever help was available from the community, from relatives, from friends; 139 Copyrighted Material dirty details 140 I'd written a book on asking for help. And I was still doing nights, lifting, and toilet, and answering to "Mar!" How dire did our straits have to be? And in order for what to happen? Maybe people just didn't know? Even though I talked about it, even though I'd called a family meeting, even though I was far from in the closet about it at parties and on the park bench, maybe people still didn't know. After all, hadn't Freda, my best friend who lives in Staten Island, two hours away by car, told me that, until she'd come to spend a weekend in our house, she hadn't really known what my life was like? How much did people have to know? How dire did our straits have to be? Did we have the right to compare our situation to a concentration camp? After all, the holocaust didn't last a lifetime. What about a prison? After all, prisoners are allowed to sleep at night. Is "hard labor" harder than lifting and toilet? Sometimes, instead of "dire straits," I'd use the word just-terrible, the undefinable just-terrible from my childhood , the word I reserved for prisons, capital punishment, and children's parents dying, especially if it was because they couldn't afford doctors. Yet why was this just-terrible different from the others? Perhaps because it was in my hands, or apparently in my hands. Or perhaps it seemed more just-terrible simply because it was here and now. I only recently found a dictionary word for just-terrible. That word is untenable, and it felt important to know there was a word for it, and that others had made it up. Copyrighted Material [44.213.99.37] Project MUSE (2024-03-19 09:34 GMT) where do we stand? 141 Still, how untenable were my straits? When something is untenable, do you have the right to call for help? To try to escape? Where do you stand? I wondered if I had the right to be rescued. When my husband was in the hospital, I'd watch it take five nurses to do what I always did at home by myself. Sometimes I, or Jeff, would let the five nurses know that. Usually they'd go "Uh-huh," or truly not hear us, but every once in a while they'd exclaim, "You mean you do this all by yourself?" My hopes would rise. "Gee," I'd think, "maybe they'll realize how just-terrible my situation is and rescue me. Talk to the main social worker or something." When that didn't happen I'd think, "Maybe I just haven't said enough." Maybe there had to be six nurses doing what I usually did alone. One particularly caring nurse took me aside. "Your situation is pretty unusual," she said. "Axe you okay?" "Not really," I answered. "I am ready for some change, and I would like it if you'd see about it, and tell me about any resources I don't yet know about." But nothing ever happened from that, or from any of the other nurses and social workers to whom I hinted or articulated my feelings. Didn't "unusual" mean "dire"? Bret burned out. Beverly...