My Own Guantanamo Bay
It is not politically correct to blame the Chinese for anything these days. For some inexplicable reason (the fashionable term is “woke”), the Covid-19 Virus which came from Wuhan, China can no-longer be called the “Chinese Virus.” Hence, I am not sure I would be socially acceptable if I were to title this chapter- “My Chinese Torture Test”. Instead, I will call it “My Own Guantanamo Bay.” That sounds so much nicer, especially for the reader who has no clue what I am alluding to.
It is my understanding that trainees in the spy game are not just taught how to perform their missions, but also how to withstand torture if they should be caught. Agents have referred to experiencing tests of 48 hours with no sleep, with bright lights or loud sounds blaring nonstop, in anticipation of the worst possible mental abuse by the enemy. It is apparently necessary to “toughen-up” our men (and women), before being sent out into the “field”- so they will not break down and reveal state secrets. The Chinese were famous for this extraordinarily cruel treatment of dissidents or spies. Hence the slang reference.
These thoughts came to me as I was concluding a 48-hour marathon of my own, with Hubby. Being repeatedly awakened from a deep sleep by someone who demands your full attention to their needs is indeed a form of torture. It is not intended as such, but the results are the same. In the past two days, Hubby has awakened me at 3 AM, 4 AM,5 AM, 6AM, or 7AM, because he could not sleep and desperately needed answers to these questions:
1st visit; “Do you have keys to the doors? They are all locked”
My responses in italics: Why do you need to open the doors in the middle of the night?
2nd visit: “I cannot get my top off. I need to get dressed to go out”
Why are you going out in the middle of the night?
3rd visit: “My boots won’t go on over my slipper socks.”
Why are you putting on leather boots at 4 AM?
4th visit: “Where is my shaver?”
It is not in my bedroom. It is in yours, in front of the television- plugged in.
5th visit: (an hour later) – “I still can’t find my shaver!” Not much point to telling him again where it is. He could not retain the information imparted, the first time. I become vertical and stumble into the next room to hand Hubby his shaver. Theoretically, I could actually go back to sleep now, because he will continue to shave for a full hour in front of the mirror by his bed. His shaving- routine, however, requires that I be available upon conclusion to stroke his face and tell him what a wonderful shave he completed. He waits patiently for me to remember to tell him how handsome he is now that his cheeks are deliciously smooth.
6th visit: “What happened to my brother and sister-in- law? It is very suspicious that they both died at the same time! Nobody will tell me anything!”
They died two years apart. Your brother from Cancer and Parkinson’s, and your sister-in-law from Alzheimer’s. You went to both funerals in London.
[personal footnote: This exact question is asked of me frequently, but never in the middle of the night. The answer I provide is always the same.]
7th visit: “Where is the money now that YOU got when YOU sold the house?
That was many years ago. I never sold anything by myself. WE sold it together! You were in charge, not me. We will discuss it tomorrow. Please go back to sleep.
Not everyone needs a lot of sleep. I need eight hours, uninterrupted, to function properly. Being awakened out of a deep sleep – in order to hear endless questions that require responses, is quite unbearable. My physical response begins with head pounding, increased pulse rate, then nausea and feeling quite unwell. Only a return to bed and subsequent sleep- will reduce the symptoms. That is often quite impossible. It reminds me of my physical condition when I would get only a few hours of sleep before departing home at 3 A.M. to be on time for an early flight abroad. Once on the airplane, I would try to catch up on the missed rest. It never worked …even with the miraculous antidotes offered by friends. Overwhelmed with the jetlag, I always felt poorly for days afterwards.
This is certainly not the first time that I have told you about this, Dear Diary. Alas, it is something for which I cannot find resolution. It feels like a form of torture normally reserved for the Mossad, MI-5, the C.I.A., or others with a much more erudite mission in life, like saving their nation from the enemy. I am only trying to save one soul in the confusion of mental dysfunction, and in the process sense my own abilities slipping away. I can feel my cells ageing rapidly, and while I once felt much younger than my years, they are now catching up with me far too quickly. I do not want to look in the mirror and see my great-grandmother staring back at me.
It would be helpful to share with my close friends and family just how hard this is for me. I do that on occasion, but know full well that they cannot really identify (thank heaven!) with the physical responses I am having to Hubby’s condition – both of which are beyond my control (Hubby and my reactions). I truly do not want them to feel sorry for me. This is all a part of life’s journey, albeit a difficult one. Is it possible to share one’s dysfunctional reality without evoking pity? There is a difference between needing others to understand, and wanting their commiseration. I certainly do not want the later. Those in my situation would like to be able to communicate their personal realities without feeling guilty about imposing on others. We would so appreciate it if our friends/family could simply listen. Perhaps – to share a constructive suggestion if so inclined. Most of all to be there – hopefully not exhibiting signs of boredom as we muddle through the hard times. Yes, we do repeat ourselves. Our lives are a mass of repetitions. We used to be really interesting in the old days, please bear with us. We will try to be fascinating sometime in the future!
When the sounds of apathy are heard on the other end of the phone, it makes me so regretful that I have bothered the friend/family with my angst. Did you even know that there are actually such sounds? They are heard through tone of voice, impatience, and unintended expressions of boredom on the other end of the line. Having discussed this very issue with other adults who are caring for their spouses, I have learned that we all experience the same cues and have the same dilemma.
A quick perusal of my “phone log” tells me who is on board and who is not. The NOTS win hands down. It is not their fault. They have their own lives and issues which absorb them. Most people cannot connect. The few that do are truly precious.
