Today is the first day I've had the desire to write. I've thought about it for months, even years, but this is the first time I feel the need. I want to write of the struggle she's going through with this horrific disease; the everyday living. I want to write how the caregiver loses herself along with the victim. Victim--first time I've used that word. But there is no other word that best describes it. Carol is a victim of time. I've lost any thought that she'll get better. I've come to the conclusion I'm living alone, even though she's with me in body. She doesn't talk to me in understandable conversation. We play charades to discover what she wants. I've stopped all walks and exercise. My agoraphobia is back or has it just been hiding? I don't want to go to the store because I'm alone, even though she's at my side. I hate life, eating fatty foods, hoping to have a heart attack and die. Then I won't have to face her dying in front of me, inch by inch.
