official

 A giant Forest Lawn envelope came in the mail yesterday. I was a little perplexed as to what could be in it. A giant thank you card for spending thousands of dollars on a funeral, a brochure and advanced planning kit for my own funeral, an itemized list on charges they forgot to add... Then it dawned on me, its the death certificates. shit. I prepared myself for the breakdown, opened the packet, searched for the cause of death... and there it was.

A sudden sense of satisfaction came over me. Damn right, that is what took him and if they had put heart failure or something else, as they frequently do with most dementia's, I would have been pissed. I don't know why, its not like it would have mattered. but it strangely did matter to me, I fought and paid for that diagnosis. When the doctor told me that this is what he believed my husband had I felt like i wanted to fall apart and kiss him at the same time. finally fuck. somebody was listening and giving a shit, not just giving up because they didn't know what was wrong. no more of him coming home with Levitra for his "issues". no more of the stigma of having and assumed mental disease-- a "real" disease of the brain, a part of him was dying and his behavior was now...forgivable? no. accepted? no, i don't know what i would call it. but the diagnosis did make a difference in the way he was treated when he had done something appalling. nurses, firemen, police, et cetera no longer were short with him, their tones had changed with him when I told them what was wrong, they took time to listen to all he had to say, a look of pity was on their faces when they interacted with him, no more cold blank non judgemental stares at him because it was part of their job. --and now its permanent- printed on fine, engraved, embossed, and digitally signed paper. This disease that designated my husband and gave me a strange feeling of satisfaction every time it was said or typed now really means nothing. it doesn't matter anymore.