Fat aside... seriously, you can have her.
I had a conversation yesterday with a friend regarding how mom obviously "went to the light, then waffled, and decided to come back to the here and now." Friend said, "Yeah, she wasn't finished fucking with you." And we both had a good chuckle over the visual of Saint Peter turning her away at the gate, "Not on my watch. Not now. No how! Go!" Heaven won't take her and Satan's out on a coffee break, so here she remains in the interim.
Every time I see in the news a celebrity dies, or a friend endures a health issue, or a friend's family member passes, I think to myself, "Why couldn't *SHE* "go" or endure those things instead of these nice people? Why can't those friends have a wee bit more time with their loved one, have more quality time? Their time is cut short, and yet here she is, miserable yet happily spreading her misery to all who happen to be near?" I fail to see the cosmic or karmic justice in that. She's so miserable she just wants to die... and then DOES NOT. She doesn't make even remotely regular deposits into the bank account of good will, yet continually and habitually overdraws that account; yet there are other folks who are good and decent and kind and loving, and yet? They are the ones getting the shaft.
All life is suffering, I understand that.One cannot compare their suffering or pain to the pain of others, or dismiss our own pain comparing it to the suffering of others. Pain is pain. Suffering is suffering. Burdens are burdens. And to each person, our pain, suffering, and burdens remain just that: OURS, and ours alone. We can sympathize and empathize, and we can think we know the pain, suffering, and burdens of others, but really we can only truly (and, yes, MERCIFULLY) live and experience our own.
Empathizing and sympathizing with our loved ones who are enduring their own pain, suffering and burdens is good for perspective, perhaps helping us not become entirely consumed by our own pain, suffering and burdens. I guess some folks either expect that perspective to diminish or even eliminate our own awareness of our own pain, suffering and burdens, or perhaps some other folks try to guilt or shame us for daring to claim ownership of pain, suffering or burdens when (obviously) others have it worse off than we do.
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Damn You February
I thought I had one more week until I had to traipse to Jersey for the birthday fuckfest. The fact that Saturday is looming ahead of me just saps me of whatever vitality I've managed to muster up thus far. All I want to do now is sleep it off.
Ten Days In
She's still not able to walk.
The care meeting was this week, at it, she was, in a word: UNHINGED.
Apparently, we have roughly 100 days (minus the 10 thus far) before she is responsible for paying for the long term care, so that buys us a wee bit more time before feeling under pressure to OMG PURGE ALL THE THINGS.
She's downright abusive to my sister, super nasty and mean to all involved. Just really angry and hostile, and let's just say, NOT a pleasure to be around. Even my aunt (Audrey's sister) has referred to her as "Mike."
On a hilarious note, Saturday is her birthday. Even before/without asking my sister if she's making arrangements, she's DEMANDED a cake to be delivered at 12:30. Oh yes. Let's just reward over-the-top cuntly behavior with a party. Apparently fourteen poor souls have been sucked into this black hole of misery.
Flask is full and at the ready. I've got a week's worth of Cymbalta coursing thru my system. I'm loaded for bear. Full steam ahead, motherfuckers!
The care meeting was this week, at it, she was, in a word: UNHINGED.
Apparently, we have roughly 100 days (minus the 10 thus far) before she is responsible for paying for the long term care, so that buys us a wee bit more time before feeling under pressure to OMG PURGE ALL THE THINGS.
She's downright abusive to my sister, super nasty and mean to all involved. Just really angry and hostile, and let's just say, NOT a pleasure to be around. Even my aunt (Audrey's sister) has referred to her as "Mike."
On a hilarious note, Saturday is her birthday. Even before/without asking my sister if she's making arrangements, she's DEMANDED a cake to be delivered at 12:30. Oh yes. Let's just reward over-the-top cuntly behavior with a party. Apparently fourteen poor souls have been sucked into this black hole of misery.
Flask is full and at the ready. I've got a week's worth of Cymbalta coursing thru my system. I'm loaded for bear. Full steam ahead, motherfuckers!
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Photo For Posterity
To show that Audrey doesn't just merely neglect herself and her health, but she also neglects other things, like her car.
This photo was snapped in August 2012, and I'm slapping it up here just for posterity, as it's related to the topic at hand, the dysfunction.
And how was this discovered? Well when her lackey, I mean, "handy man" took her car to DMV for inspection, he got out and the DMV dude doing the inspection was like 'WHOAHTHEFUCK!"
How does this happen? Well, The car sits idle in the driveway (with the exception of monthly starts to keep the battery charged up) all for the off chance that she needs to be toted some place, usually someone else driving this bucket of bolts, because it's the only car she can fit into.
Anyway, without further ado, I present this to you (average size: standard slice of Wonder Bread):
This photo was snapped in August 2012, and I'm slapping it up here just for posterity, as it's related to the topic at hand, the dysfunction.
And how was this discovered? Well when her lackey, I mean, "handy man" took her car to DMV for inspection, he got out and the DMV dude doing the inspection was like 'WHOAHTHEFUCK!"
How does this happen? Well, The car sits idle in the driveway (with the exception of monthly starts to keep the battery charged up) all for the off chance that she needs to be toted some place, usually someone else driving this bucket of bolts, because it's the only car she can fit into.
Anyway, without further ado, I present this to you (average size: standard slice of Wonder Bread):
15 More Days and Counting
Five days in the rehab center and she's still not up and walking.
Pitiful Pearl is boo-hooing how she can't find her Lorna Doones. Hasn't heard my voice since, I don't remember when? Saturday? Rushed me off the phone, I am convinced, since she knows I won't be oozing pity, or volunteering to call the nurse's station (LONG DISTANCE)--as is evidenced by no one responding to her cookie emergency, constantly ringing the call button. The world will not stop spinning on its axis if she doesn't get her Lorna Doones before dinner is served in an hour and a half.
Pitiful Pearl is boo-hooing how she can't find her Lorna Doones. Hasn't heard my voice since, I don't remember when? Saturday? Rushed me off the phone, I am convinced, since she knows I won't be oozing pity, or volunteering to call the nurse's station (LONG DISTANCE)--as is evidenced by no one responding to her cookie emergency, constantly ringing the call button. The world will not stop spinning on its axis if she doesn't get her Lorna Doones before dinner is served in an hour and a half.
The Cast of Characters
This list will be amended on a stream of consciousness basis, as either new personalities present themselves, or when I am finally able to articulate and flesh out (and name) those new personalities).
I've got a few names for my mother's different, unique personalities. And no, I am not suggesting she's like Sybill, the chick with the 17 personalities, like schizoid. Mom's got these different personalities she whips on like a jaunty beret or a festive fedora, to manipulate others into doing what she wants.
The names I've sketched out thus far:
Pitiful Pearl (and if I had to pick a last name for this character it would be Feeble).
This character presents itself with a sense of confusion, short of breath, breathy, feeble like talking, like she's in crisis, usually for dramatic effect, pity, attention, and to get you to do something either she is unwilling or unable to do. Side note:
Audrey
This character is named after the ravenous plant in Little Shop of Horrors. This is the overly demanding narcissistic character. FEED ME, FEED ME NOW, SEYMORE! Hold my hand! I need you here! I need you now! I need you to ABC and XYZ for me NOW, SEYMORE! I need to suck your life blood and marrow from your bones, SEYMORE! Oh you won't let me suck your marrow? Fuck you then! I wish you were never born!
Mike
This persona which pretty much is responsible for nearly every hateful thing she's said without cause or provocation. Usually the insults and vitriol is dispensed either immediately after or WHILE some poor fool is doing her bidding. (i.e., while my sister is manually disimpacting her, Mike decides right then and there is the right moment to inform my sister how she loves me because I'm her friend (ERRONEOUS!) and loves my brother because he's her baby, and how she loves my sister "because you're my daughter." Um yeah. Perfect timing, while an archeological dig is going on in her ass). I don't have to imagine what it must have been like to have spent 69 years on planet Earth with the knowledge that her father said "the wrong daughter died." I have lived through 45 years worth of damage those words, and many others, have done to destroy us. Remember Reaganomics' trickle down economy? Well do you want to know what else trickles down? ABUSE.
Re: "Mike" see also: Name of her father.
Note: As with all the above characters, at no time is appreciation expressed with a "Thank You."
House Devil-Street-Angel:
If you, a complete stranger were to meet her, well perhaps 5-10 years ago (and now, not so much, as the veil between how she is to intimates vs how she is to strangers is wearing very thin), you'd be met with a charming, bawdy, borderline socially inappropriate woman. Hilariously inappropriate. Perhaps a smile on her face. Complementary things to be said about others--not her children. But to us, those who know her best, warts and all, to know her intimately, is to know what I can only describe as "unpredictable grief and oggida." She would say the most carelessly cruel things, either to hurt or to be funny. Years ago it was like a slap and a tickle. But four and a half decades of this, it's lost its charm (as if there were any real charm to be claimed). This character typically would save the best parts of her personality for others, for strangers, for acquaintances. Leaving the rest of us, closely related, to lick our wounds in private, stifling our tears, breaking our sense of self worth.
See also: Mike. Mike was the KING of the House Devil-Street Angel. KING! She learned this behavior from the best. THE BEST.
I've got a few names for my mother's different, unique personalities. And no, I am not suggesting she's like Sybill, the chick with the 17 personalities, like schizoid. Mom's got these different personalities she whips on like a jaunty beret or a festive fedora, to manipulate others into doing what she wants.
The names I've sketched out thus far:
Pitiful Pearl (and if I had to pick a last name for this character it would be Feeble).
This character presents itself with a sense of confusion, short of breath, breathy, feeble like talking, like she's in crisis, usually for dramatic effect, pity, attention, and to get you to do something either she is unwilling or unable to do. Side note:
Audrey
This character is named after the ravenous plant in Little Shop of Horrors. This is the overly demanding narcissistic character. FEED ME, FEED ME NOW, SEYMORE! Hold my hand! I need you here! I need you now! I need you to ABC and XYZ for me NOW, SEYMORE! I need to suck your life blood and marrow from your bones, SEYMORE! Oh you won't let me suck your marrow? Fuck you then! I wish you were never born!
Mike
This persona which pretty much is responsible for nearly every hateful thing she's said without cause or provocation. Usually the insults and vitriol is dispensed either immediately after or WHILE some poor fool is doing her bidding. (i.e., while my sister is manually disimpacting her, Mike decides right then and there is the right moment to inform my sister how she loves me because I'm her friend (ERRONEOUS!) and loves my brother because he's her baby, and how she loves my sister "because you're my daughter." Um yeah. Perfect timing, while an archeological dig is going on in her ass). I don't have to imagine what it must have been like to have spent 69 years on planet Earth with the knowledge that her father said "the wrong daughter died." I have lived through 45 years worth of damage those words, and many others, have done to destroy us. Remember Reaganomics' trickle down economy? Well do you want to know what else trickles down? ABUSE.
Re: "Mike" see also: Name of her father.
Note: As with all the above characters, at no time is appreciation expressed with a "Thank You."
House Devil-Street-Angel:
If you, a complete stranger were to meet her, well perhaps 5-10 years ago (and now, not so much, as the veil between how she is to intimates vs how she is to strangers is wearing very thin), you'd be met with a charming, bawdy, borderline socially inappropriate woman. Hilariously inappropriate. Perhaps a smile on her face. Complementary things to be said about others--not her children. But to us, those who know her best, warts and all, to know her intimately, is to know what I can only describe as "unpredictable grief and oggida." She would say the most carelessly cruel things, either to hurt or to be funny. Years ago it was like a slap and a tickle. But four and a half decades of this, it's lost its charm (as if there were any real charm to be claimed). This character typically would save the best parts of her personality for others, for strangers, for acquaintances. Leaving the rest of us, closely related, to lick our wounds in private, stifling our tears, breaking our sense of self worth.
See also: Mike. Mike was the KING of the House Devil-Street Angel. KING! She learned this behavior from the best. THE BEST.
Pitiful Pearl's Public Pubes
Oh yes, she's in full on WTF mode. Where do I even start?
Do I start with her recoiling in sheer terror as my sister was tending to something nearby, to imply to the CNA that my sister abuses her?
Do I start with the fact that Hoyer Lift aside, they still need 4-5 people to get her out of bed?
Do I start with the visual my sister painted of sis showing up in the public dining room only to see Pitiful Pearl in her XXXL wheel chair, wearing a "Johnny Coat," open so the world could see her vajoosh (and flabby pannus), all the while holding up the tube of her foley, as if she were some fucked up urinary color guard hoisting a flag.
Full on narcissistic attention whoring, to the hilt!
All hail and pity, Pearl!
Do I start with her recoiling in sheer terror as my sister was tending to something nearby, to imply to the CNA that my sister abuses her?
Do I start with the fact that Hoyer Lift aside, they still need 4-5 people to get her out of bed?
Do I start with the visual my sister painted of sis showing up in the public dining room only to see Pitiful Pearl in her XXXL wheel chair, wearing a "Johnny Coat," open so the world could see her vajoosh (and flabby pannus), all the while holding up the tube of her foley, as if she were some fucked up urinary color guard hoisting a flag.
Full on narcissistic attention whoring, to the hilt!
All hail and pity, Pearl!
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
More Telephone Twattery
So, about that telephone call from Saturday? You remember, where my sister called and didn't leave a voicemail, expecting me to call her? I texted her back late Saturday night, and to date, I still haven't heard back from her.
So today, my desk phone rings, and I glance at the caller ID and immediately shriek out to the other secretary, "VOICE MAIL THAT!" so she won't accidentally pick up my line. And you guessed right if you were thinking, "did the cell phone ring next?" BADDABING! CORRECT! So I hit the little prompt that came up on my phone to let the caller know I'm in a meeting. And of course, again, zero voicemail was left.
I speak on the phone all day long at work. I speak with assholes throughout my day. The last thing I want to do is TALK to anyone at the end of my day, much less IN THE MIDDLE OF MY WORK DAY, when really, the only reason she's calling is to unload more negativity onto me. I'm not built for the never ending negativity, the never ending hand holding from mom, and the thought that I'm too stupid to know that both, mom and my sister, both are talking poorly about me.
So, if she cannot respond to my texts, I won't respond to her phone calls. End of story.
So today, my desk phone rings, and I glance at the caller ID and immediately shriek out to the other secretary, "VOICE MAIL THAT!" so she won't accidentally pick up my line. And you guessed right if you were thinking, "did the cell phone ring next?" BADDABING! CORRECT! So I hit the little prompt that came up on my phone to let the caller know I'm in a meeting. And of course, again, zero voicemail was left.
I speak on the phone all day long at work. I speak with assholes throughout my day. The last thing I want to do is TALK to anyone at the end of my day, much less IN THE MIDDLE OF MY WORK DAY, when really, the only reason she's calling is to unload more negativity onto me. I'm not built for the never ending negativity, the never ending hand holding from mom, and the thought that I'm too stupid to know that both, mom and my sister, both are talking poorly about me.
So, if she cannot respond to my texts, I won't respond to her phone calls. End of story.
Saw This a While Back And It Really Spoke To Me
Ramakrishna Paramhansa
[Post # 526]:
In the middle of 1885 Sri Ramakrishna developed throat cancer and the
devotees arranged for his treatment in Shyampukur, Calcutta. Holy Mother
[Maa Sharda] took the responsibility of cooking special food for the
Master and some young disciples began to nurse him under Narendra's
leadership. Shashi [later Swami Ramakrishnanda] would eat at home, then
serve the Master at night. Shashi was then preparing for his B.A.
examination. His parents had great expectations for him because he was
their eldest son and a brilliant student.
Now Shashi faced a
great dilemma: Should he serve his guru or build his career through
study? His discriminating mind selected the first one. He stopped going
home, gave up his studies, and became a full-time attendant of the
Master. An old neighbour of Shashi asked him, "Why don't you serve your
guru after the examination?" Shashi replied: "Sir, could you give me any
guarantee that I shall not die before that examination?"
When
his father begged him to return home, he replied: "For me the world and
home are both like a place infested with tigers." His father even used a
mantram to get his son back home, but this failed. It is said that on
one occasion Shashi's father criticized Sri Ramakrishna in front of him.
Immediately Shashi was ready to stab him, saying, "Who is my father?"
His father was pleased with his son, and said to him, "Yes, your
devotion to your guru is genuine."
[Post # 526]:
In the middle of 1885 Sri Ramakrishna developed throat cancer and the devotees arranged for his treatment in Shyampukur, Calcutta. Holy Mother [Maa Sharda] took the responsibility of cooking special food for the Master and some young disciples began to nurse him under Narendra's leadership. Shashi [later Swami Ramakrishnanda] would eat at home, then serve the Master at night. Shashi was then preparing for his B.A. examination. His parents had great expectations for him because he was their eldest son and a brilliant student.
Now Shashi faced a great dilemma: Should he serve his guru or build his career through study? His discriminating mind selected the first one. He stopped going home, gave up his studies, and became a full-time attendant of the Master. An old neighbour of Shashi asked him, "Why don't you serve your guru after the examination?" Shashi replied: "Sir, could you give me any guarantee that I shall not die before that examination?"
When his father begged him to return home, he replied: "For me the world and home are both like a place infested with tigers." His father even used a mantram to get his son back home, but this failed. It is said that on one occasion Shashi's father criticized Sri Ramakrishna in front of him. Immediately Shashi was ready to stab him, saying, "Who is my father?" His father was pleased with his son, and said to him, "Yes, your devotion to your guru is genuine."
What's in a Word?
Interesting choice of words in that warning.
"Fear?" Really?
FWIW, I'm taking this Rx for pretty much everything else listed,
save for the "fear."
On a Brighter Notes
There is an additional "up side" to me not having made that thankless trip to Jersey this past weekend: I get to eat the obligatory Valentine's Day chocolates I was going to bring down for my sister, niece, and my mother.
NOM NOM, bitches!
NOM NOM, bitches!
Sunday, February 16, 2014
19 More Days And Counting
Oh yes. Yesterday she finally got transferred to a nursing facility. So the clock is ticking, and we've got 19 more days to find out if the nursing home/rehab will be a temporary or a permanent solution.
I broke down and called Audrey today, kept things neutral, and she was bitching about how painful the fucking Hoyer lift is.
Have had a lengthy text conversation with my brother today. Obviously my sister bitches about me to him, and him to me. And to be frank? Between the last five years since dad died, and the final 17 years of dad's life? Yeah. I feel confident in saying I could go another 22 years without a call from my sister.
Further, she really needs to get a therapist to verbally unload. I'm tired of hearing about it, and she really needs to get on some (or better) medication to deal with the anxiety issues. She's addicted to negativity and drama like a sloppy alcoholic loves cheap booze.
So, as is typical with Audrey, my sister calls today, and doesn't leave a message, and all day long I refused to "take the bait" and call her back. I waited until the day was just about over and texted her, "You rang?" And of course, in keeping with the fact she doesn't talk TO me, but merely vomits words AT me, AT HER CONVENIENCE, my reply has gone unanswered. And that's okay. I spend all day at work on the phone. The last thing I want to do when I am home is talk on the phone with someone who is going to just suck the ever living life right out of me. So no. She doesn't like texts? Oh well. Not my problem.
Not that I'd wish my mother's life away, but I relish the day after she's passed, when I no longer have to deal with my sister. Once the funeral is over, (if I even bother to attend), I'm pretty much washing my hands of everyone.
What few folks are left on mom's side of the family are mostly trouble makers (with one or two exceptions, two of the three off spring of my uncle's wife, aka "The European Model" as the Maharajah calls her), my sister can have the rest of the family. My brother and I can salvage something workable between the both of us. End of story.
The only remaining go-between for the two cleaved halves of my family would be my mom's sister, who, to be blunt? Yeah, she lives a scant 45 minutes from my home and doesn't make any attempt at all to see me or visit my home, and well, no great loss either if I lose her in the great cleaving of the herd.
31 more minutes to go until it's 18 more days on the clock...
I broke down and called Audrey today, kept things neutral, and she was bitching about how painful the fucking Hoyer lift is.
Have had a lengthy text conversation with my brother today. Obviously my sister bitches about me to him, and him to me. And to be frank? Between the last five years since dad died, and the final 17 years of dad's life? Yeah. I feel confident in saying I could go another 22 years without a call from my sister.
Further, she really needs to get a therapist to verbally unload. I'm tired of hearing about it, and she really needs to get on some (or better) medication to deal with the anxiety issues. She's addicted to negativity and drama like a sloppy alcoholic loves cheap booze.
So, as is typical with Audrey, my sister calls today, and doesn't leave a message, and all day long I refused to "take the bait" and call her back. I waited until the day was just about over and texted her, "You rang?" And of course, in keeping with the fact she doesn't talk TO me, but merely vomits words AT me, AT HER CONVENIENCE, my reply has gone unanswered. And that's okay. I spend all day at work on the phone. The last thing I want to do when I am home is talk on the phone with someone who is going to just suck the ever living life right out of me. So no. She doesn't like texts? Oh well. Not my problem.
Not that I'd wish my mother's life away, but I relish the day after she's passed, when I no longer have to deal with my sister. Once the funeral is over, (if I even bother to attend), I'm pretty much washing my hands of everyone.
What few folks are left on mom's side of the family are mostly trouble makers (with one or two exceptions, two of the three off spring of my uncle's wife, aka "The European Model" as the Maharajah calls her), my sister can have the rest of the family. My brother and I can salvage something workable between the both of us. End of story.
The only remaining go-between for the two cleaved halves of my family would be my mom's sister, who, to be blunt? Yeah, she lives a scant 45 minutes from my home and doesn't make any attempt at all to see me or visit my home, and well, no great loss either if I lose her in the great cleaving of the herd.
31 more minutes to go until it's 18 more days on the clock...
Visual: Why I haven't visited my mother
Unrelenting...
Motherfucking...
White shit!
Yeah, lemme drive 125 miles, one way, in this shit.
LET ME GET RIGHT ON THAT!
Saturday, February 15, 2014
Conversational Nugget
(Cross posted from my other blog)
Endocrinologist to me: "You? Depressed? Srsly, I don't see it."
Me: "I'm high functioning and keep my shit to myself. I wish I were dead inside."
Endocrinologist to me: "You? Depressed? Srsly, I don't see it."
Me: "I'm high functioning and keep my shit to myself. I wish I were dead inside."
Thursday, February 13, 2014
More Toxicity: Telephone Twattery
I've been in the process of weaning Audrey off the expectation of a daily phone call from me. Because really, the negativity is toxic, and I am not equipped for holding the hand of someone wholesale incapable and unwilling to help themselves, and serves no other purpose on planet earth than to be a BLIGHT just draining the good will of any poor soul who happens by.
So, I started out small, seeing if I could go one day without calling... then work it up to two days. Well, Saturday (as mentioned several posts back) was day THREE, and the call went thusly:
Me: Hi.
Her: Can you call me later, I'm eating dinner?
Me: (very flatly) I've been laid up in bed with a migraine all day. I'm going back to bed.
Her: Well, do your best.
Spoiler alert: I didn't call later that evening, and I didn't call Sunday.
Monday, my friend visited her (see also, post several posts back), and as I didn't get a phone call of THANKS or acknowledgement, and was thanked by her talking smack about me (which I think was a ploy to get me to call her in a rage--instead she was met with silence), I didn't call.
Tuesday I thought I'd call, but fell asleep in front of the tube. I also happened to make a pact with a friend who is similarly afflicted with a mother of this caliber, and the pact was that we would both not call our respective mothers. Mission accomplished.
Wednesday, I had a neuro appointment close to home, then an appointment in NYC, and I spent the rest of the day in the city to shop, wander, and eventually have dinner with the Maharajah at Cipriani. I sipped a sambuca and limoncello w/tonic before dinner, before the husband arrived, to blunt the excrutiating pain in my low back. Dinner was lovely. And given the delays with the train etc, we got home after 10 p.m.
Wednesday, by the way, was DAY FOUR. Upon arriving home, it appears Audrey finally broke down and called me. "...I have congestive heart failure now. I could use some company."
Well fuck you Audrey! You fucked yourself in your own ass by talking smack about me. Between my friend John and my friend Mr. P., and no doubt a few other truly kind souls, I could have arranged the occasional visitor to pass the time. But no. I have to be a hard hearted bitch now, insulating myself, because Audrey is a full on TWIN of her father, of whom I cut ties with years before he passed. You do a good deed and are met with insults. And I will state on record herein: I am not a masochist.
So today, Thursday, I know I must call. And I do. And after three thwarted attempts at calling, I turned the ringer to my phone off.
Attempt 1: I call. CNA answers phone: She's being washed, can you call back later?
Attempt 2: I call 1-2 hrs later. Mom answers: Nurses are changing my dressings, can you call back later? And when I fail to call back later...
Attempt 3: Audrey calls me. She's not getting empathy from me. Call was short. I asked direct questions, "What does the doctor say? When are you being transferred to rehab? What is holding this up?" Was met with "I don't know" and realizing she wasn't going to get the tender hand holding she wanted, she got off the phone quickly.
So maybe, if she's lucky, I'll call again on Sunday. IF she's lucky.
So, I started out small, seeing if I could go one day without calling... then work it up to two days. Well, Saturday (as mentioned several posts back) was day THREE, and the call went thusly:
Me: Hi.
Her: Can you call me later, I'm eating dinner?
Me: (very flatly) I've been laid up in bed with a migraine all day. I'm going back to bed.
Her: Well, do your best.
Spoiler alert: I didn't call later that evening, and I didn't call Sunday.
Monday, my friend visited her (see also, post several posts back), and as I didn't get a phone call of THANKS or acknowledgement, and was thanked by her talking smack about me (which I think was a ploy to get me to call her in a rage--instead she was met with silence), I didn't call.
Tuesday I thought I'd call, but fell asleep in front of the tube. I also happened to make a pact with a friend who is similarly afflicted with a mother of this caliber, and the pact was that we would both not call our respective mothers. Mission accomplished.
Wednesday, I had a neuro appointment close to home, then an appointment in NYC, and I spent the rest of the day in the city to shop, wander, and eventually have dinner with the Maharajah at Cipriani. I sipped a sambuca and limoncello w/tonic before dinner, before the husband arrived, to blunt the excrutiating pain in my low back. Dinner was lovely. And given the delays with the train etc, we got home after 10 p.m.
Wednesday, by the way, was DAY FOUR. Upon arriving home, it appears Audrey finally broke down and called me. "...I have congestive heart failure now. I could use some company."
Well fuck you Audrey! You fucked yourself in your own ass by talking smack about me. Between my friend John and my friend Mr. P., and no doubt a few other truly kind souls, I could have arranged the occasional visitor to pass the time. But no. I have to be a hard hearted bitch now, insulating myself, because Audrey is a full on TWIN of her father, of whom I cut ties with years before he passed. You do a good deed and are met with insults. And I will state on record herein: I am not a masochist.
So today, Thursday, I know I must call. And I do. And after three thwarted attempts at calling, I turned the ringer to my phone off.
Attempt 1: I call. CNA answers phone: She's being washed, can you call back later?
Attempt 2: I call 1-2 hrs later. Mom answers: Nurses are changing my dressings, can you call back later? And when I fail to call back later...
Attempt 3: Audrey calls me. She's not getting empathy from me. Call was short. I asked direct questions, "What does the doctor say? When are you being transferred to rehab? What is holding this up?" Was met with "I don't know" and realizing she wasn't going to get the tender hand holding she wanted, she got off the phone quickly.
So maybe, if she's lucky, I'll call again on Sunday. IF she's lucky.
After Further Rumination & Consideration
All things considered, and despite my declaration in the previous blog post wherein I mentioned my intention to head to Jersey this weekend to do a preliminary purge of mom's shit while she's still in the hospital, I've reconsidered.
Among those "all things considered" are:
I plan on zapping a text tomorrow night to my sister and just say "migraine. can't make it. maybe march 1st." March 1st is mom's bday, and hopefully by then she'll be in a facility, so I can kill two or three birds with one stone: 1. The obligatory nursing home visit. 2. The obligatory birthday visit. 3. The preliminary purge.
I am to the point now where if my sister chooses to unload more negativity on me regarding my absence or non-participation in this cluster fuck, I'll just say, "I think it'd be best if we just not talk for a while." And just never call her again. Anything else beyond that, perhaps along the lines of how she can't depend on me for anything, I'll say, "Feeling's mutual." Planning out possible dialogue scenarios will hopefully cut down on any residual "l'esprit d'escalier" I might have, having a witty retort long after having a fight with my sister.
Also worth noting is, when the time finally comes and mom passes, I really feel no need to go to the funeral. All it will be will be more of the same as was the case with my grandfather's funeral. My sister will take center stage (like my aunt did), and the only person who will probably speak will be my niece, perhaps, given services will no doubt be held in my sister's church. I have no need to show up. No need to impress anyone. Additionally, I am sure whatever friends of my sister's that show up will be fully aware of what a shitty sister I am. And well. Stick a fork in me, I'm done. Really. No hatred or animus. Just indifferent.
Now for something incredibly sweet. Mr. P., aka my "brother from an Indian mother," texted me saying how he and his wife want to go visit my mom. And as lovely as that offer is, I had to decline it, for obvious reasons. I just told the Maharajah this, and his reply was, "Obviously he doesn't know what you're dealing with." So I texted Mr. P., back and said thanks but no thanks, and as brief as possible I let him know what's what. Sad, isn't it?
Oh, and remember back in December my mother was lecturing me about my latent alcholism, reminding me about how "dad's family has that predisposition to drink?" Well, no doctor of mine has an issue with my occasional cocktail--save for my endocrinologist, who believes I still have fatty liver syndrome, and told me to keep it to 1 cocktail a week, if that. Turns out the real reason I shouldn't overindulge is because of something I inherited from MOM's side of the gene pool.
Next up: A game of telephone, because well, wouldn't you expect nothing less?
*Hitting publish now*
Among those "all things considered" are:
- The fact that mom is still in the hospital and there is no indication as to the date of transfer to the nursing home, which once that takes place, the clock starts ticking for 20 days. And during that time, THAT really should be when the purging takes place. Otherwise, I'm just throwing away 24 hours I'd much rather be doing something else--as even if I do come down, I'll be expected to come down during the 20 day interim as well.
- The fact that on Monday I was "thanked" for having a friend (of mine) do a pop in visit by way of her insulting me, saying unflattering things to my friend, and to date, I haven't received any acknowledgment or thank you for doing so. Also haven't received an acknowledgment from my sister re: the visit either.
- The fact that my sister already has mom's funeral arrangements and obituary completed. The obituary chaps my ass in two ways. Traditionally, obits list offspring in age order, oldest to youngest. My sister, of course, listed herself first, me second--the second way it chaps my ass is that she has listed our brother last but hasn't put his wife's name in the obit. I hate my sister-in-law. She truly is evil hot garbage wrapped in skin--but really? The pettiness is appalling, especially for someone who projects to the world that she's so uber Christian.
I plan on zapping a text tomorrow night to my sister and just say "migraine. can't make it. maybe march 1st." March 1st is mom's bday, and hopefully by then she'll be in a facility, so I can kill two or three birds with one stone: 1. The obligatory nursing home visit. 2. The obligatory birthday visit. 3. The preliminary purge.
I am to the point now where if my sister chooses to unload more negativity on me regarding my absence or non-participation in this cluster fuck, I'll just say, "I think it'd be best if we just not talk for a while." And just never call her again. Anything else beyond that, perhaps along the lines of how she can't depend on me for anything, I'll say, "Feeling's mutual." Planning out possible dialogue scenarios will hopefully cut down on any residual "l'esprit d'escalier" I might have, having a witty retort long after having a fight with my sister.
Also worth noting is, when the time finally comes and mom passes, I really feel no need to go to the funeral. All it will be will be more of the same as was the case with my grandfather's funeral. My sister will take center stage (like my aunt did), and the only person who will probably speak will be my niece, perhaps, given services will no doubt be held in my sister's church. I have no need to show up. No need to impress anyone. Additionally, I am sure whatever friends of my sister's that show up will be fully aware of what a shitty sister I am. And well. Stick a fork in me, I'm done. Really. No hatred or animus. Just indifferent.
Now for something incredibly sweet. Mr. P., aka my "brother from an Indian mother," texted me saying how he and his wife want to go visit my mom. And as lovely as that offer is, I had to decline it, for obvious reasons. I just told the Maharajah this, and his reply was, "Obviously he doesn't know what you're dealing with." So I texted Mr. P., back and said thanks but no thanks, and as brief as possible I let him know what's what. Sad, isn't it?
Oh, and remember back in December my mother was lecturing me about my latent alcholism, reminding me about how "dad's family has that predisposition to drink?" Well, no doctor of mine has an issue with my occasional cocktail--save for my endocrinologist, who believes I still have fatty liver syndrome, and told me to keep it to 1 cocktail a week, if that. Turns out the real reason I shouldn't overindulge is because of something I inherited from MOM's side of the gene pool.
Next up: A game of telephone, because well, wouldn't you expect nothing less?
*Hitting publish now*
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
My Subconscious Self Preserving my Conscious Self
Unless Mother Nature flexes her muscles and dumps more WHITE SHIT this Saturday, I will be heading to Jersey for yet another (and for the foreseeable time being, LAST) thankless 24 hours of my life I'm donating to "Audrey's" cause.
Turns out, my subconscious self, or perhaps a bit of serendipity is to blame, has structured "book end" activities in such a way as to preserve, what I can, of my sanity and physical fortitude that will no doubt be depleted in the scant 24 hours I plan on DONATING to the charity case known as Audrey.
Day before:
Book end #1: Friday a.m. before work, I have an 8:45 a.m. phone in session with my therapist.
Day of:
Planned Relief #1: I plan on stopping off at my friend's shop to pick something up for an event in April. This will give me a chance to stretch my legs, use the restroom, get some friendly interaction before driving nearly one more hour, to end up directly in the mouth of the lion.
Once I get to Audrey's house, the initial plan is indentured servitude, as sis wants to do a preliminary purge of extraneous shit out of mom's house, assuming (perhaps rightly) mom won't be coming home. We find out this week when she'll be transitioning from the hospital to the rehab center and from date of transfer, we will have 20 days to do whatever we can without her influence/interference. Purge out what we can, and after 20 days, does she come home? Or will we have to liquidate the house for sale, to subsidize her being in a nursing home permanently?
And of course, I can't drive all that way without seeing Audrey. You know her? The cunt with the never ending craving for life blood and good will? Yeah. Her.
Evening of:
Planned Relief #2: Bright spot capping off what will no doubt be a draining, thankless day, will be the idea of having dinner with my friend who was so kind to visit mom. And I have a certain measure of a thrill cooking a meal for someone who is a trained chef, someone who KNOWS what good food IS, not someone like Audrey who slops stuff together and thinks VOILA! Good eats! (NOT!!!) This is the same woman, who, when Hurricane Sandy hit a few years back, was eating meat which had remained unrefrigerated for FOUR FUCKING DAYS. Yeah. Good times. People in their right mind do not eat rotten meat. Clearly, she's got adequate mental acuity to continue to live alone. (NOT!!!)
Day after:
Planned Relief #3: GO HOME. DECOMPRESS.
Monday:
Planned Relief #4: Deep tissue massage (to undo all the angst) and spend time with my husband.
Tuesday:
Book end #2: Chiropractic adjustment (to undo all the angst).
So, this post is brought to you by an aphorism and a Jewish proverb:
Aphorism:
"Let no good deed go unpunished."
Jewish Proverb:
"Man makes plans, and God laughs."
My final thought in this blog post:
Life, by its very nature, is a character building exercise. Some folks choose to be Jiminy Cricket, whereas others can't help but personify Cruella Deville.
Turns out, my subconscious self, or perhaps a bit of serendipity is to blame, has structured "book end" activities in such a way as to preserve, what I can, of my sanity and physical fortitude that will no doubt be depleted in the scant 24 hours I plan on DONATING to the charity case known as Audrey.
Day before:
Book end #1: Friday a.m. before work, I have an 8:45 a.m. phone in session with my therapist.
Day of:
Planned Relief #1: I plan on stopping off at my friend's shop to pick something up for an event in April. This will give me a chance to stretch my legs, use the restroom, get some friendly interaction before driving nearly one more hour, to end up directly in the mouth of the lion.
Once I get to Audrey's house, the initial plan is indentured servitude, as sis wants to do a preliminary purge of extraneous shit out of mom's house, assuming (perhaps rightly) mom won't be coming home. We find out this week when she'll be transitioning from the hospital to the rehab center and from date of transfer, we will have 20 days to do whatever we can without her influence/interference. Purge out what we can, and after 20 days, does she come home? Or will we have to liquidate the house for sale, to subsidize her being in a nursing home permanently?
And of course, I can't drive all that way without seeing Audrey. You know her? The cunt with the never ending craving for life blood and good will? Yeah. Her.
Evening of:
Planned Relief #2: Bright spot capping off what will no doubt be a draining, thankless day, will be the idea of having dinner with my friend who was so kind to visit mom. And I have a certain measure of a thrill cooking a meal for someone who is a trained chef, someone who KNOWS what good food IS, not someone like Audrey who slops stuff together and thinks VOILA! Good eats! (NOT!!!) This is the same woman, who, when Hurricane Sandy hit a few years back, was eating meat which had remained unrefrigerated for FOUR FUCKING DAYS. Yeah. Good times. People in their right mind do not eat rotten meat. Clearly, she's got adequate mental acuity to continue to live alone. (NOT!!!)
Day after:
Planned Relief #3: GO HOME. DECOMPRESS.
Monday:
Planned Relief #4: Deep tissue massage (to undo all the angst) and spend time with my husband.
Tuesday:
Book end #2: Chiropractic adjustment (to undo all the angst).
So, this post is brought to you by an aphorism and a Jewish proverb:
Aphorism:
"Let no good deed go unpunished."
Jewish Proverb:
"Man makes plans, and God laughs."
My final thought in this blog post:
Life, by its very nature, is a character building exercise. Some folks choose to be Jiminy Cricket, whereas others can't help but personify Cruella Deville.
Obtuse, Thy Name is "Audrey"
(Re: Audrey, see also: Audrey II from Little Shop of Horrors.)
Rather than craft a full on blog post, I figure I'll just do a "Quick and Dirty" cliffnotes/high points blog post utilizing a very cleaned up, redacted C&P of the conversation I had with my friend, who was so very kind to me for taking a few minutes out of his day to visit my mom. This will not be a good deed/request which will be repeated. She's just not worth the effort.
Him: Hey! Just got back was there for a little over 10 minutes would have stayed longer but the pity stuff you told me about started coming out.(how dare you block her from FB! lol!) anyway I was nice and pleasant told her if she needed anything to call you to let me know.
Me: tell me everything. she is a trainwreck, isn't she? did i lie about any of it?
Him: not at all. her eyes lit up when I told her I was a chef and she went into her being a cook at the nursing home she added she cooks better than what she is getting there and also asked if I was married I hear wedding bells!!LOL!!
Me: She's a horrible cook.
Him: oh yeah its (talking about food) somewhat of an icebreaker other than that well you and your sis almost never come to see her and the only one that does anything for her is her soninlaw as she was trying to say it in a nice way (in her own words)lol nice saying that to a complete stranger eh? as if she wouldn't think that I wouldn't tell you that
Me: My brother in law only does sooo much because he loves my sister and because if my sis continued to do everything shed never see her daughter.
Him: i was surprised i made it 10 minutes such negativity
Me: (Internal dialogue I didn't share: I'm surprised I've survived 45 years of her narcissism and negativity.) My bottom line is i refuse to kill myself to make her happy, because clearly, that is impossible to accomplish.
END NOTE: Neither my mother nor my sister have acknowledged my friend's visit. I'm not angry. I don't regret having normal impulses to help my mother and my sister, who clearly are abnormal. However, I am disgusted by it.
Rather than craft a full on blog post, I figure I'll just do a "Quick and Dirty" cliffnotes/high points blog post utilizing a very cleaned up, redacted C&P of the conversation I had with my friend, who was so very kind to me for taking a few minutes out of his day to visit my mom. This will not be a good deed/request which will be repeated. She's just not worth the effort.
Him: Hey! Just got back was there for a little over 10 minutes would have stayed longer but the pity stuff you told me about started coming out.(how dare you block her from FB! lol!) anyway I was nice and pleasant told her if she needed anything to call you to let me know.
Me: tell me everything. she is a trainwreck, isn't she? did i lie about any of it?
Him: not at all. her eyes lit up when I told her I was a chef and she went into her being a cook at the nursing home she added she cooks better than what she is getting there and also asked if I was married I hear wedding bells!!LOL!!
Me: She's a horrible cook.
Him: oh yeah its (talking about food) somewhat of an icebreaker other than that well you and your sis almost never come to see her and the only one that does anything for her is her soninlaw as she was trying to say it in a nice way (in her own words)lol nice saying that to a complete stranger eh? as if she wouldn't think that I wouldn't tell you that
Me: My brother in law only does sooo much because he loves my sister and because if my sis continued to do everything shed never see her daughter.
Him: i was surprised i made it 10 minutes such negativity
Me: (Internal dialogue I didn't share: I'm surprised I've survived 45 years of her narcissism and negativity.) My bottom line is i refuse to kill myself to make her happy, because clearly, that is impossible to accomplish.
END NOTE: Neither my mother nor my sister have acknowledged my friend's visit. I'm not angry. I don't regret having normal impulses to help my mother and my sister, who clearly are abnormal. However, I am disgusted by it.
Monday, February 10, 2014
On Pathetic Futility
So yeah. I get this image zapped to me in a text on my phone SATURDAY. The only thing from this image that is redacted is her last name--gotta salvage some sense of privacy here. But posting this as an indicator of how deep the FEED ME SEYMORE, FEED ME NOW of the never ending hand holding and constant craving for attention going on with my mother, and of course, my sister's inability to draw a boundary or two regarding how many times mom can call her a day, how many times a week mom expects her to visit her, as well as an acceptable time of day mom's NEED FOR FEEDING THE ATTENTION can take place.
Without further ado, the image:
So, the good daughter and sister that I am, I asked a friend who is HYPERLOCAL to the hospital in question if he'd be so kind to do a pop-in type visit, and SWEET MERCIFUL MAHATMA GHANDI! He will go for a visit. So I let my sister know this in text, within an hour of getting the texted image, and until current writing, 12:23 p.m. on MONDAY I still haven't received acknowledgement from my sister. I also sent a reminder, "Hey, just reminding you my friend is going for a visit," to which has remained unacknowledged.
Whatever. Story of my life. Work me up into a fucking frenzy, make me sick with all this drama, then silence. And I'm giving up yet another day of my life to this shit show on the 15th, as I"ll be there to help purge out mom's extraneous shit in the house, despite the obvious: that we do not know if she is going to be in the nursing facility as a temporary or permanent solution. Whatever. There are limits. I refuse to make myself sick or lose my sanity because of all this. I moved to a completely different state to get away from this shit. Unfortunately that state is in the same time zone as Dramaville.
Anyway, Saturday I was laid up most of the day in bed trying to break a migraine. Apparently, I inherited these from mom, and my mom used to get violently ill in her late 30s and 40s from them. When she was sick, the whole family was sick. The sound of her wretching echoed throughout the house. Fortunately there are meds for that, and I've got a husband who has a tidy little routine to help me break the migraine, or else we both are in its grip for the duration:
Me: Hi.
Her: Can you call me later, I'm eating dinner?
Me: (very flatly) I've been laid up in bed with a migraine all day. I'm going back to bed.
Her: Well, do your best.
Spoiler alert: I did not call her back that day, nor did I call her Sunday. The sun does not rise and set according to her convenience. Maybe, if she's lucky, I'll call her tonight. MAYHAPS. Tho, I wouldn't bank on it.
Without further ado, the image:
Whatever. Story of my life. Work me up into a fucking frenzy, make me sick with all this drama, then silence. And I'm giving up yet another day of my life to this shit show on the 15th, as I"ll be there to help purge out mom's extraneous shit in the house, despite the obvious: that we do not know if she is going to be in the nursing facility as a temporary or permanent solution. Whatever. There are limits. I refuse to make myself sick or lose my sanity because of all this. I moved to a completely different state to get away from this shit. Unfortunately that state is in the same time zone as Dramaville.
Anyway, Saturday I was laid up most of the day in bed trying to break a migraine. Apparently, I inherited these from mom, and my mom used to get violently ill in her late 30s and 40s from them. When she was sick, the whole family was sick. The sound of her wretching echoed throughout the house. Fortunately there are meds for that, and I've got a husband who has a tidy little routine to help me break the migraine, or else we both are in its grip for the duration:
- He will come in and give me my frova w/some water, and a heating pad for my neck and face;
- If I am able, I will immediately get out of bed (when the heating pads turn tepid) and take a hot shower, and shampoo, and hope that will break it... if not...
- He will take out the TENS/EMS and hook me up and set the damned taser to STUN;
- Invariably the wave of nausea will hit, he then whips out the cola syrup (anti-emetic), which, hilariously BRINGS ON THE PUKE;
- I wretch. And from the living room he chirps, "Yay! Puke! You'll feel better soon!"
- I then try to nap off what I can and humanize.
Me: Hi.
Her: Can you call me later, I'm eating dinner?
Me: (very flatly) I've been laid up in bed with a migraine all day. I'm going back to bed.
Her: Well, do your best.
Spoiler alert: I did not call her back that day, nor did I call her Sunday. The sun does not rise and set according to her convenience. Maybe, if she's lucky, I'll call her tonight. MAYHAPS. Tho, I wouldn't bank on it.
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Narcissist w/Destructive Tendencies + Crisis Mode = Perfect Storm
So yeah. She knocked on death's door, and thus far, death has not answered. Perhaps Death is a lot like me, sitting on the other side of the door saying to themselves, "Fuck that noise. What do THEY want? Fuck them!" and just not answer. And yes, I do this very thing. Because everyone wants something, either to sell me something, or get me involved in condo life shit. Fuck them And well, fuck my mother.
You'd think being so afraid to die and alternatively wanting so bad to die, then not, might have elicited a MODICUM of awareness of the finite nature of life, and perhaps for her to more wisely spend whatever allotted time she may have left. But sadly, no. She'd rather revert back to a raging bitch.
Perhaps in her raging and her demands, perhaps therein is an indication there's more fight left in her, perhaps more LIFE left in her. Perhaps. But at the moment, her not-so-inner narcissist is using all this time and drama to feed her ego, feed this incessant need to be the center of everyone's universe, making demands upon people's time and energy and empathy. My tank of empathy is now on "E." I cannot even imagine the hell my sister is in, and she is the one in the trenches on the front line, trying to slay this monster by herself. But again, that's a trap of her own design.
And again, about that awareness? My mother is so self unaware that she fails to realize how very lucky she is to have my sister local, to have my sister AT ALL, yet all she does is drain drain drain the empathy and good will, drain drain drain, call call call, complain complain complain. Fuck her. We all have lives of our own. Mom fails to realize that if it were not for my sister being here and caring and BEING THERE, and if "I" were the person running point on this, I'd go to a judge to get conservatorship, and slap her ass in a nursing facility quicker than you could say FUCK YOU. If it were up to me, she would have been in a nursing facility YEARS AGO.
Gotta feed the ego! Feed me! Feed me all night long... sing it along with me. This is the theme song. And if I can figure out how to make the FEED ME SEYMORE! FEED ME ALL NIGHT LONG as an mp3, I want this as my ring tone for my mother. And just like the plant in LSoH, my mother will not rest until she's consumed every last bit of my sister and her life giving blood. Fuck her.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L7SkrYF8lCU&feature=youtu.be
You'd think being so afraid to die and alternatively wanting so bad to die, then not, might have elicited a MODICUM of awareness of the finite nature of life, and perhaps for her to more wisely spend whatever allotted time she may have left. But sadly, no. She'd rather revert back to a raging bitch.
Perhaps in her raging and her demands, perhaps therein is an indication there's more fight left in her, perhaps more LIFE left in her. Perhaps. But at the moment, her not-so-inner narcissist is using all this time and drama to feed her ego, feed this incessant need to be the center of everyone's universe, making demands upon people's time and energy and empathy. My tank of empathy is now on "E." I cannot even imagine the hell my sister is in, and she is the one in the trenches on the front line, trying to slay this monster by herself. But again, that's a trap of her own design.
And again, about that awareness? My mother is so self unaware that she fails to realize how very lucky she is to have my sister local, to have my sister AT ALL, yet all she does is drain drain drain the empathy and good will, drain drain drain, call call call, complain complain complain. Fuck her. We all have lives of our own. Mom fails to realize that if it were not for my sister being here and caring and BEING THERE, and if "I" were the person running point on this, I'd go to a judge to get conservatorship, and slap her ass in a nursing facility quicker than you could say FUCK YOU. If it were up to me, she would have been in a nursing facility YEARS AGO.
Gotta feed the ego! Feed me! Feed me all night long... sing it along with me. This is the theme song. And if I can figure out how to make the FEED ME SEYMORE! FEED ME ALL NIGHT LONG as an mp3, I want this as my ring tone for my mother. And just like the plant in LSoH, my mother will not rest until she's consumed every last bit of my sister and her life giving blood. Fuck her.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L7SkrYF8lCU&feature=youtu.be
Elevator Utterance Today
Actual exchange in the elevator today:
Co-worker: Hey how's your mom?
Me: Oh, she's back to being a narcissistic, raging See You Next Tuesday.
Co-worker: Ah, nice. She must be feeling better.
Co-worker: Hey how's your mom?
Me: Oh, she's back to being a narcissistic, raging See You Next Tuesday.
Co-worker: Ah, nice. She must be feeling better.
Monday, February 3, 2014
So Yeah. Hospital.
As some of you might know (from FB) my mom's been in the hospital approx 10 days, for a gall bladder attack. For normal people, they would have been in the hospital that Friday, had the GB removed and been home by, I don't know, maybe Monday the latest? Not her. Nothing with her is ever routine. Everything is potentially life threatening.
Look, I'm not made of stone. She was in the hospital by Friday, so I came down on Sunday as she turned septic, and well, NORMAL FOLKS OF REASONABLE QUALITY OF HEALTH have been known to die of sepsis. So I went to see her. And her health vacillated back and forth, and surgery was scheduled for Monday, then rescheduled due to her A-Fib. And knowing I have a finite amount of personal time (of which I'd much rather use on MY OWN SHIT), I bid my mother adieu, thinking this was the final good bye.
Surgery came and went on (LAST) Tuesday, and despite the docs abandoning a laproscopic procedure midway and ended up cutting her gut open like a tuna fish can, she survived the surgery. Then it was ZOMG DEATH WATCH for a few more days as we all waited for her to get off the ventilator. True to form, waffling right on through this. Despite her declarations as much as she wants to die, HERE SHE IS, still converting oxygen into carbon dioxide. Still here.
And rather than have a momentary presence of MIND, and realize she could have died, no. She's not happy. She's angry and irritable, and DELUSIONAL, thinking she is fit to go home to take care of herself (which she very clearly IS NOT), and of course, will be fighting the decision to put her in a nursing facility until she is able to come home. IF she is able to come home.
I firmly support my mother being in a facility. But what I think matters very little. I am not my mother, nor am I her power of attorney. But she needs a facility:
Ten days into this and I am drained of whatever empathy I am capable of. I have reverted back to MY standby of sleeping excessively to avoid stress. I haven't felt good nearly the entire month of January thanks to a bronchial thing which morphed into a sinus thing, and the overall doldrums of a thus far VERY BITTER COLD winter, plus worrying about whether she lives yet there she is feeling sorry for herself, wanting to die. And I just can't abide it.
At first, I thought it was perhaps contrived out of thin air, her allegation that a nurse or a CNA actually had the gall to say to her that she brought this all on herself. But yanno what? Even if they DID say it, and it IS INAPPROPRIATE to say, it is 100% true.
She DID bring this on herself, and by "this" is her beyond-morbid obesity (if there even is such a category). She's like Pizza the Hut from Spaceballs, eating herself into oblivion just about. Thinking that all she has to do to manage her diabetes is to inject herself with insulin and she's good. No. She's over eating, and eating a lot of things she has no business eating as a diabetic, and as someone with diverticulitis. She's got horrendous cellulitis ravaging her legs, and she's too fat for a CAT or an MRI, and they held off on doing surgery for as long as they did because of the risks involved, but in the end they decided that either she'd die of sepsis or die under the knife. Color us all surprised when she pulled through the surgery. There she is, waffling to the end. Not sure if she wants to stay or if she wants to go... playing two ends off the middle, and she's too dull to realize that even though she did survive the surgery, by no means is she ALIVE.
Look, I'm not made of stone. She was in the hospital by Friday, so I came down on Sunday as she turned septic, and well, NORMAL FOLKS OF REASONABLE QUALITY OF HEALTH have been known to die of sepsis. So I went to see her. And her health vacillated back and forth, and surgery was scheduled for Monday, then rescheduled due to her A-Fib. And knowing I have a finite amount of personal time (of which I'd much rather use on MY OWN SHIT), I bid my mother adieu, thinking this was the final good bye.
Surgery came and went on (LAST) Tuesday, and despite the docs abandoning a laproscopic procedure midway and ended up cutting her gut open like a tuna fish can, she survived the surgery. Then it was ZOMG DEATH WATCH for a few more days as we all waited for her to get off the ventilator. True to form, waffling right on through this. Despite her declarations as much as she wants to die, HERE SHE IS, still converting oxygen into carbon dioxide. Still here.
And rather than have a momentary presence of MIND, and realize she could have died, no. She's not happy. She's angry and irritable, and DELUSIONAL, thinking she is fit to go home to take care of herself (which she very clearly IS NOT), and of course, will be fighting the decision to put her in a nursing facility until she is able to come home. IF she is able to come home.
I firmly support my mother being in a facility. But what I think matters very little. I am not my mother, nor am I her power of attorney. But she needs a facility:
- 3 hot meals a day on time every day;
- Medication dispensed consistently on time every day;
- Round the clock care, so if she takes a tumble, she won't be on the floor for hours, as she attempts to summon help via status updates on fucking Facebook, in the end she sat in her own waste for roughly 4 hours before help arrived;
- Back up generators in the event of another Storm Sandy knocks out the power grid again, she won't be stuck in her recline and lift chair stuck in the upright position and in her own waste for roughly 18 hours; and lastly
- She will get some measure of social interaction vis-a-vis the medicine or her food schedule which she is not getting at home.
Ten days into this and I am drained of whatever empathy I am capable of. I have reverted back to MY standby of sleeping excessively to avoid stress. I haven't felt good nearly the entire month of January thanks to a bronchial thing which morphed into a sinus thing, and the overall doldrums of a thus far VERY BITTER COLD winter, plus worrying about whether she lives yet there she is feeling sorry for herself, wanting to die. And I just can't abide it.
At first, I thought it was perhaps contrived out of thin air, her allegation that a nurse or a CNA actually had the gall to say to her that she brought this all on herself. But yanno what? Even if they DID say it, and it IS INAPPROPRIATE to say, it is 100% true.
She DID bring this on herself, and by "this" is her beyond-morbid obesity (if there even is such a category). She's like Pizza the Hut from Spaceballs, eating herself into oblivion just about. Thinking that all she has to do to manage her diabetes is to inject herself with insulin and she's good. No. She's over eating, and eating a lot of things she has no business eating as a diabetic, and as someone with diverticulitis. She's got horrendous cellulitis ravaging her legs, and she's too fat for a CAT or an MRI, and they held off on doing surgery for as long as they did because of the risks involved, but in the end they decided that either she'd die of sepsis or die under the knife. Color us all surprised when she pulled through the surgery. There she is, waffling to the end. Not sure if she wants to stay or if she wants to go... playing two ends off the middle, and she's too dull to realize that even though she did survive the surgery, by no means is she ALIVE.
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