My husband often softens harsh moments with humor. Sometimes the purpose is to make people laugh and calm them down, sometimes it’s to point out when someone is overreacting, and sometimes it’s simply for his own amusement. Regardless of why, it’s his default setting.
So when I vocalize my very real fear of going crazy and being institutionalized, he has for years countered that, “No, that’ll never happen. I’ll make sure you get to stay home by locking you in the attic.” This is a reference to my favorite novel, Jane Eyre. Usually I laugh and we move on. But recently I couldn’t let it go. He was joking, but I was not. “The problem with that reference is that it was his wife whom he never loved who got tossed in the attic. He only kept her home out of moral fiber of not abandoning her elsewhere. Then he falls in love and tries to marry another woman IN THE SAME HOUSE. He swears to Jane that he loves her and were she to lose her faculties he’d keep her by his side and nurse her himself. I know you’re joking, but it’s the unloved wife who’s locked away and neglected.”
“Oh, honey. No, I’m just joking. I’d never lock you away or institutionalize you. I’d make sure you lived at home, no matter the health problem, and I’d take care of you.”
“But you wouldn’t. It’s not in you, and that’s according to you! After we watched The Theory of Everything you said to me that you’re not cut out to be a caregiver. You said that I’d slip naturally into that role without thinking twice about it, but you didn’t think you could.”
“I would need help with the medical parts of caregiving. But I’ll always keep you by my side. I’ll always keep you in this home, and only in the attic if we fix it up all nice to your standards. You really don’t need to worry.”
It was always the fear of going crazy that worried me, but as all my organs decline and my chemicals stay off balance, I’m not sure what will disable me first. Not that it even matters.
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