Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell

Now that Will and I have secured a place to live and are moving next weekend, the inevitable question of whether to tell our new housemates about our, ahem, health issues has arisen. I hate the idea of concealing them because it’s going to be awkward when the inevitable happens—it’s a small house after all—and I don’t want the owner of the house to think we’ve deceived her.

On the other hand, why would it ever be necessary for someone to disclose their medical history to their landlord? It’s not as if we need accommodations, like we would for a wheelchair or a hospital bed. All that matters is that we keep up our end of the bargain and pay the rent on time, clean up after ourselves, and not have the cops called on us. (That happened with the previous tenants, so she’s glad to get a nice, quiet “senior” couple in along with another older lady.) We all had dinner together last night with dogs circling around our feet under the dining room table, and it struck me that we just might be really happy there. Why borrow trouble?

Of course, when we interviewed with “Lisa” before seeing the house, she wanted to know what I did for a living, and I just said I was disabled due to medical problems. She didn’t pursue it, and I certainly didn’t elaborate. I’m sure it will come out at some point, because it can’t escape notice that I have mood episodes and go to the doctor on a monthly basis and take a slew of pills every day. Then again, maybe it will, because Lisa is extremely busy with work and volunteering and doesn’t even come home every night. At any rate, I’m just hoping Will’s cancer won’t be an issue and that I can hide my crazy for a good long while. I am under no illusions that I can be symptom-free forever, but could the next mood shift please wait until we’re well-established as housemates and have proven ourselves to be reliable?

Honestly though, I think having a place to go—despite the fact that it’s not really our own—will relieve a lot of the anxiety I’ve been feeling. I’m still a bit fragile, even though I’m out of the depression for the most part and considerably stronger than I was when I got out of the hospital. Then, it wouldn’t have taken much at all to land me right back in there; now, I’ve got some reserve and am rolling with the punches a little better than I was. I think I’ll be OK for real once we get settled in and figure out how we’re going to manage our new life in these unusual circumstances.

One thing’s for sure: none of us will ever have to confess to passing gas, because we’ll have four dogs we can blame for it. Haha!