I'm
still doing the strategic avoidance routine with him. Trying to stay as
far away from him and the security monitors as possible.
Monday night, I was running a few minutes late, too late for me to try to
escape by way of the lobby (before he transitions from the loading dock
to the front console for his final hour of his work day), so I opted to
go out the backdoor (subtext: Convoluted exit plan).
I come out, and think I'm home free, and just as I pass the garage
entrance (which leads to the loading dock where he is most of the day),
he quickly comes up around the corner (I don't know what he could
possibly have been doing out there, as he was clearly between our
building (#44) and the next building (#34, which is the building I have
been trespassing through in order to avoid passing the front desk of
#44).
He quickly came up and around the corner of the building to go back into
the garage (was he waiting there for me? I honestly don't know), and
I'm so near sighted (and polite) that before my brain could identify
that it WAS HIM, I blurted out, "Hey," and he looked up and said, "Hey,"
and kept walking, with a sheepish type look on his face.
So that was the single, solitary interaction he's had with me since LAST
MONDAY, and he neither: 1. Told me, "Let me get your book," or 2. Said
"I'm sorry." He just kept walking. At this point, I couldn't care less
if I get either the book or the apology. I feel fairly certain he is
either intimidated by me that I was so direct (I told him what he was
doing wrong, but didn't berate him or be cruel about it), or he thinks I
am nuts. In either case, I have downgraded him from "Friend" to
"Asshole," and quite possibly am going to label him (for future
reference) as a sociopath. How could someone who (claims to have been)
was a SOCIAL WORKER be so utterly clueless and classless? It baffles my mind. Even though I *know* that sociopaths hide in plain sight, usually in positions of power, and can be otherwise charming individuals. This makes them all the more sinister, IMHO.
So, tonight, with any luck, I will leave here about 10 minutes early,
and will traipse thru the lobby, and hopefully he will not be there yet.
And if he is, I'm just going to keep walking. I have nothing to be
ashamed of. I am still not convinced that this is the very last of this
saga given how last week escalated so quickly.
I have issued forth a new edict to the cosmos/universe: NO NEW FRIENDS.
I very much feel like that line of dialogue from the movie As Good As
It Gets, "Go Sell Crazy Some Place Else, We're All Stocked Up Here." I'd
say I'm good with friends. I don't need a tribe of hundreds.
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
My Stalker: Part 3: Lunchtime Collateral Damage
On the heels of the crazy shit with Sal, I am now trying to find
some place just TO BE by myself during my lunch hour. (And given that some of my readers are also introverts of sorts, I'm sure you could appreciate this chapter of the story.) Fuck me sideways, I am running out of potential places to hide.
My options:
I have been amazed that whatever feel good or even neutralish good feels I’ve had since my vacation last month have lasted this long, but now I’m back to my full on I HATE PEOPLE mode and really just want to be left alone.
Wednesdays are typically my day to leave the building, go to farmer’s market or whatever. But I have a feeling I’ll be disappearing every day now. Perhaps get a walk in and go to Whole Foods to just sit and bask in my anonymity.
My options:
- In my own suite of offices on the fifth floor, there are two conference rooms and a
back room filing room, with a shared kitchen/pantry area we share with our
regional office. All of these are off limits because ... “PEOPLE.“
- There’s a huge-ass cafeteria/cantina downstairs where everyone in
the entire building has access, and it’s really just horrible with noise
pollution, as well as “PEOPLE.”
I just want to sit quietly, and 100% of the time when I do, I do so in a corner
chair, facing out the windows, my back to everyone, and anyone with a modicum
of awareness would read that as LEAVE ME ALONE, and yet, people still approach
me to talk about what I am making. Nice enough as that is, I just want to be
left alone. To me, my crochet is like meditation. I don’t want nor need to be
engaged in mindless chitchat. Just like in the workplace shithouse... no chitchat. Just leave me the fuck alone.
Since I gave Sal “THE NOTE OF DOOM,” obviously I’ve burned that bridge, nor would I want to sit in his office bullshitting, even if he made an attempt at apology (which he hasn’t, and I doubt he will—PS: I actually ran into him Monday night, while I was doing my back door exit routine, thinking he was already at his post at the front desk—no such luck, and no such apology either), I’ve been IN SEARCH OF alternate places just to eat my lunch and BE ALONE, without having to leave the premises.
- So I go down to our LL2, which is a secure floor, and go into the
small kitchenette/pantry area down there, only to realize that the cleaning
lady has taken it upon herself to take her breaks in there (seriously, this is
a high rise building, surely they have areas for the maintenance people to take
their breaks—not in the areas where TENANTS ARE). I was down there on Friday
and yesterday, each day she’s in there, wasting time and drinking her weight in
Keurigs (without putting any money in the till—it’s on an honor system,
btw). Sidenote: She’s slacking off, and it’s chapping my ass—every workplace has them.
I have my hands full with my own fucking slacker.
Today I get down there five minutes later than my norm, and she’s got my spot, the table which is just about in a blindspot, behind a load bearing post. I don’t feel like sitting down there, listening to her chatter on her cell or smelling her weird food smells, so I’m AGAIN, off to find some place just to BE.
- I scurry off to the conference room also down on that level. Door
locked.
- No place else except what amounts to a small anteroom barely bigger than a closet where the investigators have their lockers, and a few file cabinets. Yep. That’s where I went. No chair, so I swiped JabippyLoo’s, given she’s working 4 to midnight tonight. I sat in an over glorified closet/file room and ate my lunch in solitude in there.
I have been amazed that whatever feel good or even neutralish good feels I’ve had since my vacation last month have lasted this long, but now I’m back to my full on I HATE PEOPLE mode and really just want to be left alone.
Wednesdays are typically my day to leave the building, go to farmer’s market or whatever. But I have a feeling I’ll be disappearing every day now. Perhaps get a walk in and go to Whole Foods to just sit and bask in my anonymity.
My Stalker: Part 2: Existential Angst
Then,
of course, the Sal (stalker) situation is rife with attachment and negative
conditioning, first with the triggers which are similar to my mom's
behaviorisms, also my own losing of my self or losing my place. I came
from a middle to lower income family, and for the last 14 years, that
has not been my reality.
I have not forgotten "the salad DECADES." At my core, I still am that broken woman, bankrupted, living paycheck to paycheck, and ever-aware that I could be a paycheck or two away from being homeless. Once you live like this, you always live in fear of it, because it can and does happen in the blink of an eye.
While I don't consider myself a racist, I am a class-ist, and by that, I do not mean that someone's financial net worth or occupation dictates who they are or if they are worthy enough to cultivate a friendship with, but how they COMPORT themselves (do they treat everyone with dignity? are they kind? do they have any depth? do they have good manners?). This was the yardstick by which I decided to cultivate my friendship with Sal, because on the surface, he appeared deep, given he had a love of reading, and loved to read the same types of books/authors I do, and even managed to introduce me to a few I had not explored yet.
My dad was blue collar, and at times a security guard. I could remember sitting with him and playing pranks on his co-worker. Mom was in food service, and us kids have worked a series of service related jobs: waitressing, gas pumping, chamber maiding, landscape, you name it. So the idea to eliminate someone as a potential friend did not even factor into my processing. And the idea of commiserating with what I thought was a friend, talking about our mutual love of philosophy books (albeit in the comfort of the security office at my office building) still seemed natural to me.
My husband pointed out how the caste system pretty much eliminates this kind of thing, as folks (in India) tend to seek out their "own kind." Obviously, I've come to discover, "my own kind" is a very nebulous thing.
The only thing I can do is take everyone on their own merits and be much more scrutinizing moving forward. My husband even pointed out and boiled it down to that Sal and I only had one thing in common: books on philosophy. And obviously, reading doesn't necessarily equate to Sal actually processing the themes, nor does it automatically mean he's got awareness or enlightenment. He's totally deluded. Also, his education level* doesn't necessarily mean he's automatically any more sophisticated than Frank, the maintenance man.
The thing is, and while I did condense (imagine that! that SAGA I pecked out was a mere CONDENSING!) the story to the thing that tripped my trigger last week, there had been some other things perking for a while, which I just let aggregate until last week's events happened, and pretty much turned me off.
The speaking ill of everyone, in the most casual of off handed ways. Saying directly to a maintenance man (from Ghana) that I have to "watch out, he's got the Ebola." (This was the week prior--and I said directly in front of both of them how inappropriate I thought that was.) Or telling me regarding the same guy (not in front of him, of course), "Who ever took him out of the jungle did him a disservice." And then went on to tell me about how the same guy (Frank) is a "habitual baby daddy."
Also, sometime roughly end of August (prior to him going out on medical leave for surgery*), he said something to me about how the UPS man was spreading rumors that my co-workers think I am nuts. This struck me odd, as just the day before I said to Sal, that I know he's a captive audience, so if ever there's a day he doesn't feel like chatting, to let me know. I don't want to invade his space. So the next day he comes up with the "nuts" thing. In hindsight, I think it's SAL who is spreading this rumor.
Ultimately, he talks poorly about everyone, very casually, very matter-of-factly, that it made me think to myself "what does it say about me that I had chosen to cultivate a friendship with this person?" The fact that he, Sal (a Mexican, mind you) felt so comfortable saying these things around me disgusted me. Then couple that up with the personal shit directed at me, I just hit the point of no return.
And to use a movie analogy: Sal has become Fredo Corleone. I have reached the point where Michael Corleone finds out his brother betrayed him, and Michael says to Fredo, "You're dead to me."
I have not forgotten "the salad DECADES." At my core, I still am that broken woman, bankrupted, living paycheck to paycheck, and ever-aware that I could be a paycheck or two away from being homeless. Once you live like this, you always live in fear of it, because it can and does happen in the blink of an eye.
While I don't consider myself a racist, I am a class-ist, and by that, I do not mean that someone's financial net worth or occupation dictates who they are or if they are worthy enough to cultivate a friendship with, but how they COMPORT themselves (do they treat everyone with dignity? are they kind? do they have any depth? do they have good manners?). This was the yardstick by which I decided to cultivate my friendship with Sal, because on the surface, he appeared deep, given he had a love of reading, and loved to read the same types of books/authors I do, and even managed to introduce me to a few I had not explored yet.
My dad was blue collar, and at times a security guard. I could remember sitting with him and playing pranks on his co-worker. Mom was in food service, and us kids have worked a series of service related jobs: waitressing, gas pumping, chamber maiding, landscape, you name it. So the idea to eliminate someone as a potential friend did not even factor into my processing. And the idea of commiserating with what I thought was a friend, talking about our mutual love of philosophy books (albeit in the comfort of the security office at my office building) still seemed natural to me.
My husband pointed out how the caste system pretty much eliminates this kind of thing, as folks (in India) tend to seek out their "own kind." Obviously, I've come to discover, "my own kind" is a very nebulous thing.
The only thing I can do is take everyone on their own merits and be much more scrutinizing moving forward. My husband even pointed out and boiled it down to that Sal and I only had one thing in common: books on philosophy. And obviously, reading doesn't necessarily equate to Sal actually processing the themes, nor does it automatically mean he's got awareness or enlightenment. He's totally deluded. Also, his education level* doesn't necessarily mean he's automatically any more sophisticated than Frank, the maintenance man.
*Allegedly has a Ph.D. in public health--yet, why is he a doorman?
The thing is, and while I did condense (imagine that! that SAGA I pecked out was a mere CONDENSING!) the story to the thing that tripped my trigger last week, there had been some other things perking for a while, which I just let aggregate until last week's events happened, and pretty much turned me off.
The speaking ill of everyone, in the most casual of off handed ways. Saying directly to a maintenance man (from Ghana) that I have to "watch out, he's got the Ebola." (This was the week prior--and I said directly in front of both of them how inappropriate I thought that was.) Or telling me regarding the same guy (not in front of him, of course), "Who ever took him out of the jungle did him a disservice." And then went on to tell me about how the same guy (Frank) is a "habitual baby daddy."
Also, sometime roughly end of August (prior to him going out on medical leave for surgery*), he said something to me about how the UPS man was spreading rumors that my co-workers think I am nuts. This struck me odd, as just the day before I said to Sal, that I know he's a captive audience, so if ever there's a day he doesn't feel like chatting, to let me know. I don't want to invade his space. So the next day he comes up with the "nuts" thing. In hindsight, I think it's SAL who is spreading this rumor.
*The
day after his surgery, I actually went to the hospital with a small
goodie bag of things that are so useful that no one thinks about but
needs in a hospital right after surgery: Earplugs, blindfold, wet wipes
for the face, mouth moistening losenges, chap stick. I did this like I
would do FOR ANY FRIEND OF MINE. The husband believes this was the tipping
point, giving Sal license to feel overly-familiar with me, like he was
entitled to just no longer give a shit about the pretense of politeness.
Ultimately, he talks poorly about everyone, very casually, very matter-of-factly, that it made me think to myself "what does it say about me that I had chosen to cultivate a friendship with this person?" The fact that he, Sal (a Mexican, mind you) felt so comfortable saying these things around me disgusted me. Then couple that up with the personal shit directed at me, I just hit the point of no return.
And to use a movie analogy: Sal has become Fredo Corleone. I have reached the point where Michael Corleone finds out his brother betrayed him, and Michael says to Fredo, "You're dead to me."
My Stalker: Part 1: Trigger Tripped
Someone with whom I've been cultivating a friendship with, who
(CLAIMS he) was a social worker in the past, has been jokingly accusing
me of being a hypochondriac. Couple this up with other shit, like asking
leading questions, then when I answer, he drones on about me being a
narcissist and a hypochondriac. It's been happening with more
regularity, and isn't something I can ignore. I find it appalling
actually.
I've been harboring some awkward feelings for a
while, little red flags popping up along the way (total time: six
months), until LAST Monday. Starting Monday afternoon, I was avoiding him for several days, and he
kept calling my desk (and hanging up). I really have nothing more to
say. But I fear/feel it's going to get confrontational.
Monday
was the tipping point. After spending (what I believe is/was my final
lunch hour socializing with him, a full hour, I might add), he insisted
on calling me later, to let me know he went home to get my book. This
was a needless call, as my routine, at day's end, is to pass his desk on the way out. I
refused to pick up the call (it went to voicemail), and I refused to
call him back.
He's demanding too much of my time (and hello, I'm
married--and no, I haven't gotten any indication that he's got romantic
inclinations towards me). But still, this weird
attachment and ever-increasing demands of time have been chapping my
ass. I mean, okay, I was socializing with him DURING MY LUNCH HOUR (and
not every single day, but a lot of days, consistently), and if that
weren't bad enough, trying to leave by way of the lobby is like a
conversational bear trap which I cannot seem to extricate myself
cleanly. Then, the increasing telephone calls. I don't have the stamina
or give a fuck for this!
Tuesday, he called my desk FOUR TIMES,
and each time, did not leave a voicemail. He just kept calling thinking
surely I'd pick up. And if he just called, and an unlisted caller called
me, I'd avoid picking up that call, too, thinking it was him.
Wednesday was a mirror image of Tuesday with more calls.
So Wednesday, I succinctly pecked out my thoughts, printed it up, and folded it up tightly. I had it in my
pocket so when interaction was inescapable, I could (AND DID!) pull this
out and say something glib like "talk later," and then continue walking with a purpose away from him.
It's essentially a "FUCK YOU BOMB," because I've been too damned
Churchill-ian* in my responses in person, up until the point I gave this
printed up note.
The note, in entirety reads:
Since you are not reading the cues on my face or my body language, perhaps reading words on a page will articulate this best:
1. When you call me a hypochondriac, I do not find this funny. I find it damaging and insulting.
2. When you say you don't believe that I am actually depressed, I find it damaging and presumptuous.
3. When you laugh about this, I find it damaging and mocking.
I need my space.
Thursday, the inescapable happened on Thursday, as he's been stalking me on the
security cameras at work, and if he sees I took the freight elevator
down to drop off the mail, he comes out of his office to bullshit, and
it's getting very creepy. IMHO.
This scenario had been playing
out all week, and intensifying. I had been avoiding leaving the building
by my usual (and most direct route to get to my car) by way of the lobby to avoid
interacting with him, because it's gotten to the point where he's just a
BLACK HOLE sucking up all available time and energy, and I don't have
the stamina or give-a-fuck for this anymore. Also? He talks poorly about
everyone else--and I've come to the conclusion HE is the one spreading
rumors about me, not the UPS driver. (More on this in a separate email.)
Monday and Tuesday night, I was leaving a bit
early so as to avoid him. Only by Weds he caught onto my routine (see
also: Stalking me on the monitors), that when the elevator dumped me out
on lobby level, I could hear his voice off in the distance, so I had to
make a hasty exit out the back, which is the most convoluted route
possible. By Thursday morning, I had my fill of this bullshit. I decided
one of us had to be the adult, and realized "THAT SOMEONE" had to be
me. The note hand-off would take place Thursday.
Again, I go down
to drop the mail off at the loading dock (mind you, all week long I had
been avoiding this very task, and preferred to take the mail to the POST OFFICE instead, which is on my way to the train station to pick up the
husband). And as predicted, he runs out to see me and try to engage.
I walked with a purpose and as I passed him, I palmed off the note, and
kept going, as I could hear him in the background reminding me about my
book (which he went home special on Monday to get,
because during Monday's conversation he asked about a Bhagavan Das book I
WAS going to loan him and I said, "Yeah, well, you still haven't
returned DaVinci Code, yet") and how he brought it in for me (which at this point, I don't give
a shit if I get it back at this point). Mind you, one voicemail and EIGHT call and hang ups regarding a fucking book. It's a bit excessive if you ask me.
Also, very triggery for me, as this is the same type
of carelessly cruel, narcissistic, and emotionally damaging type
behaviors my mother does. Perhaps my awareness is keenly tuned into it
because of 46 years of dealing with this type of monster.
Regarding the Churchill-ian reference:
"The height of diplomacy is telling someone to go to hell in such a way where they actually look forward to the trip."
Bottom line: I've been too nice, and this asshole has been increasingly
feeling more comfortable to say whatever-the-hell he wants without
having any regard for my feelings.
If you've read this far,
thank you very much for your time. I know it's a lot to read. I haven't
notified my boss or his yet, and hope I don't have to. How he responds
(if any) to the note will determine that. But as an aside, I am going to
buy myself some pepper spray and wear it on the lanyard around my neck,
which also has my access/swipe cards to get into my office, so it'll
always be there, if I need it. No loitering or lingering in the building after hours either. And I'm trying to find places to hide.
Next up: Existential angst and Lunchtime Collateral Damage.
PS: I've attempted to fix the formatting in this post several times, and the HTML is not agreeing with me. Seriously, I don't format paragraphs like this.
PS: I've attempted to fix the formatting in this post several times, and the HTML is not agreeing with me. Seriously, I don't format paragraphs like this.
Friday, September 26, 2014
To B(1), Or Not To B(1)
I'm reading up on the benefits of thiamine, and of course the side effects of too much, as well as symptoms of deficiency (reading up on it for my own personal use to deal with a few issues), and discovered that confabulation was a symptom of deficiency. And knowing things like rickets (yet another health issue brought on by thiamine deficiency) are common amongst the morbidly obese, I now wonder what Audrey's B1 levels must be like.
Just thinking out loud. Just a thought. And knowing how long her diabetes was left untreated, knowing the effects that have on the kidneys, between her twisting the truth and the diabetes, it could be beneficial for her to be on this.
Of course I won't mention it to her or my sister, because I'm not a medical professional. I do think it's a valid thing to muse about though.
Just thinking out loud. Just a thought. And knowing how long her diabetes was left untreated, knowing the effects that have on the kidneys, between her twisting the truth and the diabetes, it could be beneficial for her to be on this.
Of course I won't mention it to her or my sister, because I'm not a medical professional. I do think it's a valid thing to muse about though.
Thursday, August 14, 2014
What Do You Make of This?
A brooch?
A pterodactyl?
Seriously. I got my birthday card from Audrey, received a full eight days before my birthday. It's an otherwise non-descript birthday card, the kind you get in a bundle perhaps with some pre-printed return address lables when you make a donation to AMVETS or St. Jude's Children's Hospital. You know the type.
I guess it's good she remembered to send a card at all, rather than either overlook or forget it. But to send it nine days early when we're no longer in the era of the Pony Express? The mind reels at the possible subtext:
At first, I read it as "Have a nice life." Which, given 46 years of verbal and emotional abuse, hostility and jealousy, I could easily envision her saying to me, given how active my life is, and how much I travel, and perhaps she could be jealous of that? Perhaps. And perhaps the response was a put down? I don't know, really. I just found this sentiment a bit at odds with being in a birthday card.
And then another part of my mind kicks into gear, "Perhaps she meant it sincerely. Perhaps." And then all I could do was just chuckle at it. Chuckling at myself at analyzing it as far as I have, when really, she probably didn't give it all that much thought. Maybe it was sincere.
But reading it a second time, I realize I read it wrong, and "Have a great life." Still, instead of reading and inferring a put down, now I view it as having a more ominous vibe along the lines of a "final statement" she wants to leave me with before she dies. (Note: No new dramas with her health, she's stable to my knowledge.)
I received the card on Monday. My actual birthday is NEXT Tuesday. And thus far, I have held off on calling her regarding receiving the card.
And yet oddly, a part of me wants to send her (granted, the cheapest arrangement available) flowers to arrive on my actual birthday. Because, well. Why not? The day isn't all about me. But also her. I'm debating the exact sentiment for the card: "Sorry about what I did to your vagina all those years ago."
End Note: Sunflowers are her fave. So I went with that. Something nice and cheery to commemorate the day I tore her twat to shreds. But to be honest? I hope it cheers her up. If you're confused reading, imagine how conflicting it is for me to live this way.
ETA: Turns out she mailed it so early out of concern she'd forget to mail it at all. I have to laugh at myself for over-analyzing this to the degree I have, and hope she enjoys her flowers tomorrow.
A pterodactyl?
Seriously. I got my birthday card from Audrey, received a full eight days before my birthday. It's an otherwise non-descript birthday card, the kind you get in a bundle perhaps with some pre-printed return address lables when you make a donation to AMVETS or St. Jude's Children's Hospital. You know the type.
- Could she have some mental acuity/mental diminishment going on, perhaps the result of poor health, which is causing her to either lose track of what day it is or perhaps what day my actual birthday is?
- Could she be attempting to force an interaction in the form of a phone call (despite the obvious I call her once a week)?
At first, I read it as "Have a nice life." Which, given 46 years of verbal and emotional abuse, hostility and jealousy, I could easily envision her saying to me, given how active my life is, and how much I travel, and perhaps she could be jealous of that? Perhaps. And perhaps the response was a put down? I don't know, really. I just found this sentiment a bit at odds with being in a birthday card.
And then another part of my mind kicks into gear, "Perhaps she meant it sincerely. Perhaps." And then all I could do was just chuckle at it. Chuckling at myself at analyzing it as far as I have, when really, she probably didn't give it all that much thought. Maybe it was sincere.
But reading it a second time, I realize I read it wrong, and "Have a great life." Still, instead of reading and inferring a put down, now I view it as having a more ominous vibe along the lines of a "final statement" she wants to leave me with before she dies. (Note: No new dramas with her health, she's stable to my knowledge.)
I received the card on Monday. My actual birthday is NEXT Tuesday. And thus far, I have held off on calling her regarding receiving the card.
And yet oddly, a part of me wants to send her (granted, the cheapest arrangement available) flowers to arrive on my actual birthday. Because, well. Why not? The day isn't all about me. But also her. I'm debating the exact sentiment for the card: "Sorry about what I did to your vagina all those years ago."
End Note: Sunflowers are her fave. So I went with that. Something nice and cheery to commemorate the day I tore her twat to shreds. But to be honest? I hope it cheers her up. If you're confused reading, imagine how conflicting it is for me to live this way.
ETA: Turns out she mailed it so early out of concern she'd forget to mail it at all. I have to laugh at myself for over-analyzing this to the degree I have, and hope she enjoys her flowers tomorrow.
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
Man, Oh, Mangina!
It's been about two weeks since the apex of this story, and I know I've been a bit remiss in detailing this tale involving my brother; however, I figure I should share (or document herein, as I feel a lot of folks reading this already know what's going on) for continuity.
Brother is three years my junior. He's 6'2" or 6'4" (thereabouts) and at the apex of this story, he tipped in at "four and a half bucks," or as I like to say, he's built like a Berlin Butcher.
He inherited either/or/both, the RA from mom's side of the family and the psoriatic arthritis from dad's side of the family.
On or about (BEFORE) Father's Day, he was put on Embrel. We are not sure if this was the tipping point, trigger or what, but he started to withhold/gain a lot of water weight, an alarming amount at an alarming rate. I started getting second hand reports from Audrey and my sister about it. It got to the point where his legs were so swollen, he couldn't bend them, and it was almost to the point where he could not wear long pants.
The fluid started working its way upward around the midsection, and he has had a weird, wet sounding "lungular" type cough.
All this alone would have been enough for ME to take my ass to the doctor. Not him. Hell. He retained so much fluid, his testicles were the size of grapefruits and his penis had fully retracted inwards, forming a "mangina" (man + vagina = you guessed it). THAT alone should have been the tipping point to get his ass into the hospital.
But, no.
I believe he wanted to keep his perfect attendance at work, and was holding out until Friday, so as to keep his perfect attendance. Things kept escalating. Thursday he went into work, only to have his shop foreman tell him "get your ass to the ER." Despite weeks of all of us telling my brother to go, it took someone with a penis to tell him to go and whaddayaknow? He went.
Each day brought with it increasingly worrisome news. (And mind you, I get it all distilled thru my sister or my mother, and what news I get from my brother is so nebulous, I really don't know what to think.)
At first, allegedly, congestive heart failure was ruled out, and he was waiting to get cleared by a pulmonologist. At this point, he told me he has had his "Come to Jesus" moment and was ready to start the process to get the gastric bypass.
Next day, scratch that! He's got congestive heart failure (at age 43!).
Next day, he's got congestive heart failure and has a paltry 25% heart function left (at age 43!!). I warned him that he should let his nurses know his past history of blood clotting problems. They don't have the compression thingies on his legs and to my knowledge had not put him on blood thinners. He of course, neglected to mention this (sister is convinced he is in full on denial about that time when he was very little and almost died).
Next day (or perhaps the day after), BADABING! BLOOD CLOTS IN THE LEGS!
Next day he gets cleared (allegedly) by the pulmonologist, and no clots in the lungs, but still, what's up with the cough? (Ever since dad's passing nearly six years ago, my brother has had this weird cough, which has been misdiagnosed as pneumonia--it could very easily have been CHF masquerading all those years. The medical "care" where my family lives leaves a LOT to be desired. Again, you can lead a horse to water...)
All the while this is going on, there's a parallel storyline going on, involving the YentaBeast, who was in Florida visiting her mom, and her resistance/reluctance to come home, despite the fact that he was in the hospital, in crisis. We can only deduce it was out of spite, given that my brother refused to pay for her to visit her mom, her mother paid, and the delay of about five to six days before she finally came home just further cements in all our minds (even his) that YentaBeast is pretty much garbage wrapped in skin.
Next day, he gets transferred to a different hospital, and is on deck for a cardiac catheterization. All his focus was on was seeing his daughter, as clearly, he was convinced he was dying. YentaBeast finally shows up with my niece in tow, just in time before he has his procedure.
Next day, he has the cardiac cath, survives it. And as he told me, he didn't have any blockages. Sure, good news, but fuck it! 25% heart function? I guess he'll look for any bright spot he can at this point?
Next day he gets the news that he is not a good candidate for a heart transplant due to all his other co-morbidities; and the flip side to this coin is, he cannot go in for the gastric bypass which could turn some of this shit around, because his heart is so weak.
Next day, he gets fitted with a "life vest," an external defibrillator he will have to wear for the rest of his life. The subtext of him wearing an external one vs having a surgically implanted one is pretty much he's a lost cause. Not sure why they did not put an internal one in, given that it's no more invasive of a procedure than the catheterization.
Next day, as weak as he was/is, they release him home.
Next day, I get a frantic voicemail at work from Audrey, "Your brother is being rushed back to the hospital. The defib is zapping him." I text him calmly, "Everything okay?" He says "The alarm won't stop." I said, "Does it hurt, yanno, as it's zapping your heart?" He replies back, "It's just the alarm. It's not zapping me." In keeping with my boundaries regarding the phone as it pertains to Audrey, I don't bother to call her back. This is just her way of drumming up drama to get a telephone call out of me. I let a week slide before I called her for my usual call I make every 7-10 days.
It's been two weeks now, and despite my suggestion that he gets a second opinion, and all he has to do is say the word, and I"ll make arrangements with my cardiologist in NYC. Apparently he's lulled into some false sense of security or is in active denial or what, but has not taken me up on the suggestion. Doesn't matter that dad was 20 years older before he was battling congestive heart failure in his 60s, while my brother is enduring this in his 40s. And despite the obviousness that dad's dad died at age 50 from a heart attack (but by all accounts had drank himself to death), and dad had his first heart attack at age 50, my brother doesn't realize the severity of the situation and might not live to see 50 himself.
As I said to Audrey last night, you cannot live other people's lives for them. Dad delayed getting a second opinion until it was too late. My brother is going through this EARLIER than dad, is much worse off than dad right off the bat, and refuses to do anything (beyond getting a hospital bed for the house, and set himself up for a sleep study to get a CPAP finally). I refuse to let this tear me up inside for however long it takes him to die. I was continually destroyed for the final 17 years of dad's life. I don't have it in me to do this again.
As Yoda says,"Do or not do. There is no try." Well, he's not even really trying or doing, and yet in the not-doing? That still is an action.
All I can focus in on or control is ME. And I am in the full on assessment stage, worrying and wondering if in having my bypass and losing what weight I have managed to lose, was enough to prevent this from being part of my own life narrative.
Two aphorisms/quotes apply herein: "Man makes plans, and God says HA!" and "God helps those who help themselves." I've planned... I just hope it HELPED my own health.
Brother is three years my junior. He's 6'2" or 6'4" (thereabouts) and at the apex of this story, he tipped in at "four and a half bucks," or as I like to say, he's built like a Berlin Butcher.
He inherited either/or/both, the RA from mom's side of the family and the psoriatic arthritis from dad's side of the family.
On or about (BEFORE) Father's Day, he was put on Embrel. We are not sure if this was the tipping point, trigger or what, but he started to withhold/gain a lot of water weight, an alarming amount at an alarming rate. I started getting second hand reports from Audrey and my sister about it. It got to the point where his legs were so swollen, he couldn't bend them, and it was almost to the point where he could not wear long pants.
The fluid started working its way upward around the midsection, and he has had a weird, wet sounding "lungular" type cough.
All this alone would have been enough for ME to take my ass to the doctor. Not him. Hell. He retained so much fluid, his testicles were the size of grapefruits and his penis had fully retracted inwards, forming a "mangina" (man + vagina = you guessed it). THAT alone should have been the tipping point to get his ass into the hospital.
But, no.
I believe he wanted to keep his perfect attendance at work, and was holding out until Friday, so as to keep his perfect attendance. Things kept escalating. Thursday he went into work, only to have his shop foreman tell him "get your ass to the ER." Despite weeks of all of us telling my brother to go, it took someone with a penis to tell him to go and whaddayaknow? He went.
Each day brought with it increasingly worrisome news. (And mind you, I get it all distilled thru my sister or my mother, and what news I get from my brother is so nebulous, I really don't know what to think.)
At first, allegedly, congestive heart failure was ruled out, and he was waiting to get cleared by a pulmonologist. At this point, he told me he has had his "Come to Jesus" moment and was ready to start the process to get the gastric bypass.
Next day, scratch that! He's got congestive heart failure (at age 43!).
Next day, he's got congestive heart failure and has a paltry 25% heart function left (at age 43!!). I warned him that he should let his nurses know his past history of blood clotting problems. They don't have the compression thingies on his legs and to my knowledge had not put him on blood thinners. He of course, neglected to mention this (sister is convinced he is in full on denial about that time when he was very little and almost died).
Next day (or perhaps the day after), BADABING! BLOOD CLOTS IN THE LEGS!
Next day he gets cleared (allegedly) by the pulmonologist, and no clots in the lungs, but still, what's up with the cough? (Ever since dad's passing nearly six years ago, my brother has had this weird cough, which has been misdiagnosed as pneumonia--it could very easily have been CHF masquerading all those years. The medical "care" where my family lives leaves a LOT to be desired. Again, you can lead a horse to water...)
All the while this is going on, there's a parallel storyline going on, involving the YentaBeast, who was in Florida visiting her mom, and her resistance/reluctance to come home, despite the fact that he was in the hospital, in crisis. We can only deduce it was out of spite, given that my brother refused to pay for her to visit her mom, her mother paid, and the delay of about five to six days before she finally came home just further cements in all our minds (even his) that YentaBeast is pretty much garbage wrapped in skin.
Next day, he gets transferred to a different hospital, and is on deck for a cardiac catheterization. All his focus was on was seeing his daughter, as clearly, he was convinced he was dying. YentaBeast finally shows up with my niece in tow, just in time before he has his procedure.
Next day, he has the cardiac cath, survives it. And as he told me, he didn't have any blockages. Sure, good news, but fuck it! 25% heart function? I guess he'll look for any bright spot he can at this point?
Next day he gets the news that he is not a good candidate for a heart transplant due to all his other co-morbidities; and the flip side to this coin is, he cannot go in for the gastric bypass which could turn some of this shit around, because his heart is so weak.
Next day, he gets fitted with a "life vest," an external defibrillator he will have to wear for the rest of his life. The subtext of him wearing an external one vs having a surgically implanted one is pretty much he's a lost cause. Not sure why they did not put an internal one in, given that it's no more invasive of a procedure than the catheterization.
Next day, as weak as he was/is, they release him home.
Next day, I get a frantic voicemail at work from Audrey, "Your brother is being rushed back to the hospital. The defib is zapping him." I text him calmly, "Everything okay?" He says "The alarm won't stop." I said, "Does it hurt, yanno, as it's zapping your heart?" He replies back, "It's just the alarm. It's not zapping me." In keeping with my boundaries regarding the phone as it pertains to Audrey, I don't bother to call her back. This is just her way of drumming up drama to get a telephone call out of me. I let a week slide before I called her for my usual call I make every 7-10 days.
It's been two weeks now, and despite my suggestion that he gets a second opinion, and all he has to do is say the word, and I"ll make arrangements with my cardiologist in NYC. Apparently he's lulled into some false sense of security or is in active denial or what, but has not taken me up on the suggestion. Doesn't matter that dad was 20 years older before he was battling congestive heart failure in his 60s, while my brother is enduring this in his 40s. And despite the obviousness that dad's dad died at age 50 from a heart attack (but by all accounts had drank himself to death), and dad had his first heart attack at age 50, my brother doesn't realize the severity of the situation and might not live to see 50 himself.
As I said to Audrey last night, you cannot live other people's lives for them. Dad delayed getting a second opinion until it was too late. My brother is going through this EARLIER than dad, is much worse off than dad right off the bat, and refuses to do anything (beyond getting a hospital bed for the house, and set himself up for a sleep study to get a CPAP finally). I refuse to let this tear me up inside for however long it takes him to die. I was continually destroyed for the final 17 years of dad's life. I don't have it in me to do this again.
As Yoda says,"Do or not do. There is no try." Well, he's not even really trying or doing, and yet in the not-doing? That still is an action.
All I can focus in on or control is ME. And I am in the full on assessment stage, worrying and wondering if in having my bypass and losing what weight I have managed to lose, was enough to prevent this from being part of my own life narrative.
Two aphorisms/quotes apply herein: "Man makes plans, and God says HA!" and "God helps those who help themselves." I've planned... I just hope it HELPED my own health.
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