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:

• 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.

So. The migraine finally abates. And I get out to do the grocery shopping as we were anticipating more of the WHITE SHIT (TM). So once home, but still in the parking lot, I decided to call my mother. As it stood at that moment, I had gone two days without calling. I am trying to wean her off the expectation of a call every single day, when clearly she's out of active crisis mode.  And I decided to call while I was still in the parking lot because I view my home as my sanctuary, my place for peace, and let's face it, all this drama and attention whoring is not peaceful at all. So I call. The dialogue goes 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 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.