Killing Janet

 *I will swear in this post. I think it is highly appropriate for my situation. If you disagree, please don’t talk to me about it. Just gossip about me like a regular person.*

Ethan was checked into the hospital on April 3, 2022. There were many ER visits before they could find out what was wrong, and I can’t count how many times doctors told us they couldn’t do anything because nothing was abnormal. I would always tell Ethan that he was probably just a hypochondriac or bad at managing pain. It got harder and harder to believe him, because like the doctors would say, everything seemed normal. It was extremely frustrating and exhausting before the shit even hit the fan. 

I won’t go through the timeline of events because it is so long, and also because I honestly can’t remember a lot of it. Just know it was hard. Like, your first break up hard. Or, the love of your life can’t talk to you or move because he has so many tubes going into his body and throat and he could die at any second, hard. Yeah, let’s go with that second one. 

Anyway, as things progressed it was impossible to not want to place the blame somewhere. On genetics, the doctors that ignored us, the jaundice he had as a baby, etc. And of course, the thought of blaming myself, and even Ethan, was very easy. 

I think it’s human nature to want to place the blame somewhere. In the story of Adam and Eve, after they both chose to eat the apple, Adam blames Eve, Eve blames the serpent, and the serpent claims he was helping God. The blame game has been played since the creation of the Earth. We want explanations for what it happening and why. It gives us closure I guess.

So when we were suddenly thrown into the depths of hell with no explanation or warning, I wanted something to blame. The doctors who ignored us, diet, toxins in our food system, lack of sleep, stress, Covid, genetics, etc.

As he began to get better, there were just more things to blame and get mad about. 

“Is it really that hard to walk? Just stand up and move. It’s like 10 feet.”

“I am getting no sleep. Doesn’t Ethan know that I need sleep?”

“Is the pain really that bad? I’m sure that I could manage it a lot better.”

These thoughts didn’t come without massive guilt. If I lost my temper for even a split second, I would see how it hurt Ethan, and suddenly I would remember how terrible our situation actually was. I would spend a while feeling guilty, which would turn into frustration, which would get focused on Ethan, and the cycle would repeat. 

This went on for months. When he was in the hospital it didn’t happen as often because there were other people to help take care of him and I was still going to work. When he got home, things got worse. I was with him 24/7. He needed help getting in and out of bed, on and off of chairs, getting food, drinks, phone chargers, medications. I had to beg him to go on walks, even just 20 feet, because it hurt him so bad. It sucked. It started to feel like Ethan was trying to bother me on purpose, waiting for the right moment to really get under my skin. Obviously I knew that wasn’t true, but when you are that sleep deprived and depressed, that’s what it feels like. 

We started going to therapy together to work through the trauma and the hard feelings that come with it. Our therapist told us that it could be helpful to name the necrotizing pancreatitis. She thought that naming the disease would help us cope with our feelings. My first thought was, “What a stupid idea. How the hell is that going to help anything?” My second thought was, “Janet”. 

So we named it Janet.

Janet has been living with us for a long time, longer than we’ve been in the hospital. She craves attention, and she is destructive when she doesn’t get it. Janet likes to hurt others feelings; in fact, she thrives on it. She was in every room we entered, every conversation we had, and even got in bed with us every night. 

Janet is a hoe ass bitch. We fucking hate Janet.

Honestly the more that we acknowledged Janet, the better our relationship with the disease, and each other, got. Ethan wasn’t trying to inconvenience me in any way; he was equally annoyed with Janet. It was so nice to wake up in the middle of the night to change sheets or bandages or drains, and just look at Ethan and say, “Fuck Janet”, and he would look back and say, “Fuck Janet”. 

We got rid of a bunch of Janet’s things. The wheelchair was returned to the hospital, the walker is in the closet, and my kitchen countertop is no longer stacked with millions of medications and bandages. Janet is being evicted, slowly but surely. 

We will be blaming Janet for a long time. As much as we hate her, she will always be a part of our lives. Right now she sits in the corner alone and cries because she is not the center of attention anymore. Ethan is, with all of his progress and hard work and general kick assery.

Maybe one day we’ll be able to kill Janet. Honestly, I’d love to beat the shit out of her. But until that day comes…

Fuck you, Janet.