In a year, my aunt will be dead and in the ground.
This is a story about my family vacation. Every night we sat down for dinner at their house. I could not have thought up a more unpleasant ordeal.
Let's get something straight right off the bat. The matriarch has two sons, my father and my uncle. They are both doctors. We are the children of doctors. We know medical terminology. "Aspirate" means that she coughs food and drink into her trachea while her paralyzed throat muscles struggle with the peristalsis even babies can manage. "Pneumonia" is what you get when chunks of comestibles coat the upper respiratory tract with lovely growth medium for colonies of unfriendly bacteria.
When they said "motor neuron atrophy", they meant that she would fracture her ankle walking in the living room of her own home.
When they said "degenerative", they meant her speech would come out as an unintelligible howl. Like a fucking zombie from a horror movie after four packs of cigarettes. It's not as funny as it sounds.
When they say "not completely understood", they mean "helpless".
I hope you can understand me when I say that the self-help books on this disease don't quite do it justice.
We're sitting at dinner, having some good conversations considering the circumstances. My aunt is using her finger to push chunks of potato down her throat. I stare at my glass of water. We pause uncomfortably, silently, every time she starts choking. She doesn't really drink anymore. She squirts fluid down her throat with a bottle and hopes for the best. Every night, I brought my laptop and excused myself early. Every night, closed-ear headphones were my friend.