I keep wondering: who suffers more from a terrible disease? The patient or the patient’s family?

Another million dollar question. Like the question: to be or not to be.

What two poor wretches my husband and I are when we have to be both.

My husband was a house chore virgin and I always thought he was going to carry this virginity into his grave. However, on this Saturday he broke his record by making four noodles when I was tormented by running stomach. BTW, it’s pure dark cooking, I’d never eaten anything so horrible in my whole life. I managed to eat some just for the sake of his trying—four times. Honestly, he might not be the best shoulder to cry on but he tried his best. 

I’d been there so I know the worst part of being a patient’s family has never been the hard work of taking care of a sick, or the crushing responsibilities you have to bear alone, or the endless visits to the hospital, it’s the fears, the despairs, the dark moods that the patients would infuse the room with, like an octopus and its ink.

I’ve tried to be a good patient. I seldom complain or whine or begrudge—at least I tried to compress them into a dark corner and put on a brave face. But your spouse always knows.

It hit him pretty hard. Last night I persuaded him to talk with an online shrink---I tried it before and it can’t fix the problem but at least it helps--- in some way. You know, talking with someone makes the unbearable less unbearable.

We are like two caged wound animals. Both of us are too tired, too exhausted, and hurt too much to give each other enough support and comfort. Sometimes, we huddle together to keep warm, sometimes we lick the wounds of our own and fight our own demons. The pain of transformation. The question is: how long it is going to last?