Today Twitter is abuzz with a new
expression that has actually been around for months: Romnesia. Liberal bloggers coined the term as a way to describe an
extreme shift in political positions, or in essence, forgetting what you once
stood for. Today Obama used Romnesia
in the latest version of his stump speech, and now every news outlet’s headline
contains it.
This is on the heels of Tuesday’s
debate. Will Obama’s victory benefit him in the polls? Probably a little, but
in most cases a good debate performance doesn’t help so much as a bad debate
performance can hurt. And it can all come down to a single moment, if that
moment is one that captures a weakness that was already brewing underneath the
surface. In 1988, Dukakis was cold and clinical when asked if he’d support the
death penalty should his wife be brutally raped and murdered. In 1992 H.W. Bush
looked at his watch during a town hall meeting. During a 2000 presidential
debate Gore sighed and rolled his eyes repeatedly. In 2008 John McCain wandered
the stage, seemingly disorientated. And last Tuesday, Romney made his now
infamous “binders full of women” comment.
None of these should have been
terrible blunders, but they revealed detachment, or cockiness, or confusion,
and in Romney’s case, a tendency to be out of touch. And that can lead to what
a candidate fears most of all (other than losing) – being mocked.
The funny thing about the “binders
full of women” comment is that I didn’t even catch it. I bet a lot of people
didn’t. But the next morning it was all over the internet, and now it’s what
people remember about the debate, along with the fact checking about Libya
If I was
the only person not to catch it, I had a good excuse. Tuesday night Monty
got back from his six-week trip to Ghana
I’d see him when I got home.
Except, late in the day my
mother-in-law Natalie texted me. Can you
stop and pick up some Gatorade and Tylenol? Monty has a fever and I think he’s
dehydrated. I’d give him Advil, but I’m afraid he’d throw it up.
Instantly I felt guilty for making
him find his own ride. I was still in my meeting as I read the text, and I
looked at the clock a million times before the meeting was finally over. Then the
ride home took way longer than normal because traffic was backed up due to an
accident, and there was a long line at the drug store, and by the time I
finally made it home it was after six.
Natalie met me at the door. She’d
been speaking to me as little as possible, ever since I gave her a deadline for
when she needs to leave and go back home to Iowa, but on Tuesday she was willing
to talk.
“He looks bad,” she said in an
exaggerated whisper. Abby and Noah were playing in the next room. “He’s upstairs
lying down. You should go up right away. He’s been asking for you. I keep
saying you’re on your way, but then he’ll ask me two minutes later, like he’s
forgotten what I just said. I hope it’s not that Ebola/Rabies virus. And he held
the kids! I went online to see if disorientation is a symptom, but I haven’t
found anything.”
I stood there, at the foot of the
stairs, clutching the CVS bag filled with Gatorade and Tylenol, and I could
feel my throat fill with liquid anxiety. My husband was finally home, and I
hesitated, afraid.
“I’ll get him to drink. He’s probably
just dehydrated.” I ascended the stairs with feigned confidence.
The lights in our bedroom were off
(at least Natalie had relinquished our bedroom) save for the flickering light
of the television, which was on mute. MSNBC was on, and Chris Matthews was
going on about something. Well, that was a good sign. Monty must have been lucid
enough to put on MSNBC, because Natalie never would have chosen that channel.
I sat down in bed and felt his
forehead. It was burning hot.
His eyes opened at my touch and he
smiled.
“Lucy,” he sighed. “Finally. Wha
took you so long?” He slurred and mumbled at the same time. “Starting to geh
worried. Did you change the filter on the furnace?”
Over the last week I had been over
possible scenarios of what our reunion would be like. They were all variations
on a similar theme, and that theme was that we were both still angry. I guess Romnesia
actually is a catching disease, because Monty seemed to have forgotten his
previous position of being mad. So I played along.
“Babe, I need you sit up so you can
drink something.” I pulled on his arm and placed my other hand underneath his
back. I pushed upwards, but it did little good.
“Monty, seriously, sit up. I got
you Gatorade. You need to drink.”
“Tired, Luce. Flight wore me out.
Did you change the filter…”
“Yes,” I lied. I would go down and
change it in a minute, since it seemed to be so important to him. “The furnace
is fine. Now sit up and drink.”
His eyes, which had been half-shut,
suddenly widened and focused on my face. “Love you. Sorry about before. Are you
still mad?”
I stroked his forehead; it was hot
and clammy at the same time. I knew that whatever was wrong with him needed to
be taken seriously and suddenly I couldn’t even remember what I’d been so upset
with him about. “I love you too. But if you don’t sit up and drink, I’m going
to be very mad.”
Dutifully he sat up, and drank from
the Gatorade bottle in slow sips.
That night, after I put the kids to
bed, I sat in bed with him while he alternately drank Gatorade, dry heaved, and
rested his head in my lap while I stroked his forehead. It wasn’t unlike the
night before he left, six weeks ago, when the Republican convention was on. Except
this time he actually wanted the television on, and he desired my presence as
well. Every now and then he’d mumble something like, “Did Romney just call
immigrants ‘illegals’?” or “I don’t believe any of these questioners are
actually undecided.” But mostly he slept and I worried.
The next morning I cancelled my
lecture and took him to the doctor, but there wasn’t much they could do. His
diagnosis:
·
The combination of the nausea from the
anti-malarial drugs, plus the turbulence from the plane, plus possibly a
stomach virus, made him throw up a lot and thus caused him to be very
dehydrated, which only increased his nausea and thus his fever. –Or-
·
He caught some form of the flu on the airplane,
in which case he needs to be all but quarantined, because it most likely isn’t
what the kids and I have been vaccinated against, -Or-
·
His bad reaction to the anti-malarial drugs has
suddenly gotten much worse, so he should go off them. Which he will, but he was
supposed to be on them for several weeks even after he got back, so now he’s at
an increased risk of contracting Malaria. Again.
So I’m supposed to monitor his
temperature, keep him away from the children, and bring him in if he starts to
refuse fluids or if his fever climbs higher than 103. As we drove back home,
all the good will I had been feeling the night before dissipated, and my own
version of Romnesia set in. I
clenched the steering wheel with both hands, and Monty sat slumped in his seat.
His eyes were closed and he was straining to swallow. In the light of the day I
could tell how much weight he had lost – I guessed around ten pounds. Ten
pounds in six weeks.
“I don’t
care if I have to chain you to lawn furniture, you are never going back to the
African continent again. Ever. And if you think I’ll renege on that, you are
so, so wrong.”
He didn’t
open his eyes. He didn’t say anything.
“Did you
hear me?” I demanded.
“Yes.” His
answer was barely a whisper.
“Are you
going to respond?”
He sighed.
“’Renege’ is an awfully pretentious word to use when you’re angry.”
“That’s not
funny, Monty.”
He opened
his eyes and turned his head towards me. “My head hurts like it’s being cut
open with a butter knife. I can’t talk to you about major career decisions
right now.”
While rationally I could understand that this wasn’t the time to force
the issue, emotionally I couldn’t let it go. I need him to be here, healthy and safe. I wanted him to promise me he’d
never go back, and I wanted that promise now.
“Just say you agree with me, and I’ll leave you alone.”
He closed
his eyes again. “Fine. I agree. Now leave me alone.” Then he turned away, and scooted towards the window, creating as much distance between us as possible.
So the old Monty, the one who hates being coddled when he's sick, the one who will hold a grudge, was back. The Romnesia was gone, and it's place was resentment. He may be willing to give up his job in the face of overwhelming evidence that he has to, but that doesn't mean he won't blame me for it. I left him alone for the ride
home, and I’ve been leaving him alone ever since. Now he’s struggling to get better from
whatever it is that’s making him feel so awful.
And I’m keeping my mouth shut. If
one of us is going to talk, it has to be him. I
can’t speak, for fear I’ll make a gaffe that will reveal just
how vulnerable I am. I’ll keep my thoughts stored away, in a binder full of
blunders.
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