Reality Broadcasted

I recline for hours. Often, I spend my days reclining more than anything else. Of course, today is no different. The current debacle on the Reality TV program is that Jessica is mad at Austin because he was caught on the patio with Cheryl straddling him after the elimination ceremony where Diego was sent home. Their bodies glisten as they all makeup with a much-deserved pool party, a wave of giggles and squeals crashes through the speaker and covers me. All I want is their body, I pray I keep my mind. Let me act as the Baba Yaga, charm them with my helpless demeanor then eat them all, rip them limb from limb, and gorge myself on their potential. And so I will sleep, quelled for now by my body's unignorable demand for rest, knowing that when I wake things will stay very much the same. A waking purgatory for the cardinal sin of wasting the body I had and only feeding the brain. I was always detached from it, I never saw it as quite my own, moreso a cage for an animal who wanted out.

 I would nurture my mind like a wailing newborn, I'd always hear about pitiable hags who lost their minds to dementia or hysteria or whatever other ailment they'd give into with open arms. I always vowed that would never be me, the inevitability of deteriorating is always there yes, but my cooperation with Mr.Death was not inevitable.

 And so I trained. I started small with word games and sudoku. I’d always get advertisements that these menial activities helped with preserving mental age, because after a while the narrative changes from bettering to just maintaining. To only want to “maintain” yourself sounds like a damn shame to me. So I figured I would step up my little self-designed program. Times tables. But even a fifth grader could do that. Mental clarity doesn’t just come from route memorization after all, critical thinking is where the real progress would be made. I brushed the dust off of my old mystery books, Nancy Drew and – and all that. I would skim the pages, one minute in a girl's dormitory in France and then next in a cemetery looking for the czar's daughter's ruby necklace. And yet here I recline. I’d throw the books against the wall as they slid down with a crash. It made no difference, they were juvenile anyway; someone who lived so much life like myself can see through the shoddily crafted plotlines and nauseatingly dull reveals. Oh no, the maid did it! Right. I moved on to reading up on other cultures. I always considered myself something of a worldly person however lacked the context to ever really engage enough to feel comfortable ever seeing the destinations myself. I’d read critiques of American ideologies, jot down notes, and create rebuttals I would chant at the TV and my imaginary debatee.

I once imagined that the reality TV contestants would listen to me from time to time, however watching a spaced-out Angela stare at Theo’s oiled-up sculpted body didn’t exactly make for engaging conversation. Over time I found it worked though, I had been effectively combatting any poison that wanted to seep its way into my brain. I guess my body got jealous of the lack of attention. It browned and softened like a month-old banana bashed against a fucking wall. It made me sick to look at myself. Not like I really could all that much though, I have trouble recalling the last time I’ve even looked in a mirror. The trouble recalling part makes me angry, and the inability to look in a mirror without an aid standing behind me makes me angrier.

Did you know that people who have had herpes virus at some point in their lives are twice as likely to develop dementia compared to those who have never been infected? When I read that headline today I gave myself a mental pat on the back. Thank god I never risked anything like that. Of course, I craved the intimacy of sex from time to time, it must be nice to have someone be in charge of your body for a while. I just never did though, never found it worth it or found the right person who understood what I needed from the experience. I didn’t look for anyone and no one looked for me, I guess that's how I ended up in this recliner, by myself.

 I can’t go outside. The aid, Sarah’s her name, Sarah says I shouldn’t try to wheel through the unpaved grass that surrounds the whole yard. I do it all myself, well with Sarah too I guess. I schedule my doctor visits, transfer Sarah’s check at the end of each week, call and haggle with the electric company to lower my rates a bit. With that being said, it's only natural that some things will fall through the cracks. Who cares about a trimmed lawn and tidy yard when you can’t step foot into it anyway? The HOA warnings pile into my mailbox but I know they won’t do a thing about it. I don’t have time to speak with those ancient creatures anyway, I’ve got a brain to enhance after all.

I like Sarah. It was a laborious process to finally find a somewhat competent aid. The first one was a young woman, she had to be all of twenty-five years old. She was…nice, but I’m not paying someone to be nice. Nice is a meek “..hello! You look very healthy today”. I decided long ago that I don’t need “nice” from a person. She was shit at her job anyways. Every request I made was immediately met by a failure followed by a parade of “sorry”s on her part. She was gone in a month. Then came the second one, I would say I don’t remember her name but I was never too concerned with asking for it in the first place. This girl was good enough, placidly did the task and took the check. Then one day I found her picking her nose and sneezing over the cooling bowl of gnocchi soup she had been reheating from the day before. Needless to say she was fired the same day and I didn’t eat for the next week out of pure disgust.

Then there was Sarah. Sarah was great, she kept her head down and worked. She didn’t ask prying questions or throw me pitying glances from over her shoulder. She didn’t care, at least about what I thought of her. What she did care about was her work, she took pride in completing every task as close to perfection as possible. She would do loads of laundry, wash piles of dishes, clean the floors, feed me, change me, and lift me into bed as if I were precious cargo. She made it all look effortless. On the Thursday evening of her first week as she lifted the green and pink paisley nightgown over my head I asked, “You haven’t spoken barely five words to me all week, why did you go into caregiving?” Her hands that had brushed over my shoulders had paused. “You would say I have been taking good care of you correct?”

“Well…yes I definitely would.”

She nodded her head in unsurprised affirmation, “Hm right, well then I don’t feel much of a need to talk. My job is to make your life easier not to be a friend or confidant, unless you would say that’s what will help you be healthier. If not then I don’t see a whole lot of an issue. Goodnight and see you tomorrow ma’am.” And with that, she turned off the bedroom light and clicked the front door shut. I sat in the darkness, eyes wide open taking in the interaction. That was the first time I laughed in years. A loud yowling bellied cackle. I decided I wouldn’t let Sarah go until she left first.