Audrey's house still isn't sold yet, we're now waiting for the C.O.
By the time the deed is finally transferred, Shady Pines will have absorbed it all. And with her pension and Social Security now in a trust account, that's the end of the line.
She's still demanding and bossing everyone around, not realizing very soon, she will become what I will call "indigent adjacent." Sure, her basic needs of a roof and sustenance will be met, but beyond that, there isn't a quality of life. And if she's got to suffer, then the rest of us will, too, in one form or another.
Fuck her.
Showing posts with label ShadyPines. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ShadyPines. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 24, 2018
Post-Paschal Post
I sent Audrey a card on Wednesday, which she received either Good Friday or Saturday.
Easter came and went and she didn't bother to call me.
The following week, I started my spring cleaning and found three bags of sugar free candy, so I mailed them off to her. THAT, of course, elicited a call of thanks. Of course, because I DID SOMETHING FOR HER.
Last week was about the fourth week after Easter, and it took her THAT long to get around to calling me, and not to say she missed me or that she was worried (as normal mothers would), but that she wanted me to DO SOMETHING FOR HER. See? I only exist when she wants me to exist.
Anyway, she left a voicemail on my phone at work, slurred speech and all, and I somehow deciphered the books she wanted me to get from paperback swap, and I ordered them, and I thought my participation here was done. OH NO! It's never that easy.
The next day I got YET ANOTHER voicemail asking if I got the first message (YES DUMB ASS). And the following day I got ONE MORE voicemail, this time on the house phone. All of these calls I have not managed to call her back, because, well, FUCK HER.
And here we are, about two weeks away from my least favorite holiday, and I had a fucking epiphany yesterday. I decided when I go out to find my pink unicorn, in this case, the most neutral, most impersonal mother's day card I can find, I will buy about 5 of them, so then for subsequent years, I don't have to go through this bullshit anymore.
There's no way to figure out the correct # of cards to buy. If I buy 5, she'll probably die next year, and if I buy 10, she'll die 11 years from now. So I can't win for losing. But I am tired of this bullshit holiday. Resent it, even! But I think buying the cards in bulk is a brilliant idea, and one I am embarrassed to say that it's taken me THIS LONG to figure this out.
Easter came and went and she didn't bother to call me.
The following week, I started my spring cleaning and found three bags of sugar free candy, so I mailed them off to her. THAT, of course, elicited a call of thanks. Of course, because I DID SOMETHING FOR HER.
Last week was about the fourth week after Easter, and it took her THAT long to get around to calling me, and not to say she missed me or that she was worried (as normal mothers would), but that she wanted me to DO SOMETHING FOR HER. See? I only exist when she wants me to exist.
Anyway, she left a voicemail on my phone at work, slurred speech and all, and I somehow deciphered the books she wanted me to get from paperback swap, and I ordered them, and I thought my participation here was done. OH NO! It's never that easy.
The next day I got YET ANOTHER voicemail asking if I got the first message (YES DUMB ASS). And the following day I got ONE MORE voicemail, this time on the house phone. All of these calls I have not managed to call her back, because, well, FUCK HER.
And here we are, about two weeks away from my least favorite holiday, and I had a fucking epiphany yesterday. I decided when I go out to find my pink unicorn, in this case, the most neutral, most impersonal mother's day card I can find, I will buy about 5 of them, so then for subsequent years, I don't have to go through this bullshit anymore.
There's no way to figure out the correct # of cards to buy. If I buy 5, she'll probably die next year, and if I buy 10, she'll die 11 years from now. So I can't win for losing. But I am tired of this bullshit holiday. Resent it, even! But I think buying the cards in bulk is a brilliant idea, and one I am embarrassed to say that it's taken me THIS LONG to figure this out.
Tuesday, February 27, 2018
Shady Pines: A Screed on Food
So the very same weekend as "Who Flung Poo," Audrey ends up in the hospital too, this time with YET ANOTHER raging cellulitis infection. She manages to call me and leave a voicemail about my brother, and never mentioned anything about HER being in the hospital--not that it matters to me really. She has gone WEEKS without calling me, and there she is, calling me to convey that my brother was in the hospital, and I have no doubt she wanted to gossip about what got him there. I wasn't having any of that, and let the call go to voicemail. She called again this past weekend, and again, I let it go to voicemail, as her birthday is on 3/1, and there is no way in hell I am going to call her twice in less than five days. Fuck that noise.
Before I get ahead of myself, here is a photo of what her dinner on Sunday was, at Shady Pines. Now mind you, she is on "self pay," and we're still waiting for the sale of her house to go through.
The above is a photo of what you get served for dinner at a nursing home. Mom is on self-pay to the tune of $11,000 (and as of current writing, she has racked up close to $55-66,000, which is more than half of the value of her house). I have absolutely no doubt that they have it on file that mom is a diabetic who has diverticulitis. Look at that "welfare dog," plus TWO different forms of cabbage.
Now I'm not a tube steak snob. I've been known to have a hotdog (on an actual hot dog bun!) and some cole slaw for dinner; however, if I paid someone $11,000 a MONTH for my room and board (et al), I'd expect more than this. And yet, there's a bit of irony, knowing how mom worked for 25 years in the kitchen of a nursing home--oh those poor souls! As if they didn't have enough troubles, landing them in a nursing home, but to eat mom's cooking on top of that? Surely it's one of the inner rings of Dante's hell.
Food has always been a continual theme in mom's life--food controlled her, and by extension, she controlled us with food.
Years ago, I worked with a friend whose mom was from Ireland, and she boiled everything. She and I would go toe-to-toe, story by story, inventorying particular dishes each of our moms made that we were forced to choke back. I don't remember which of my mom's particular dishes won that contest, whether it was her grease-laden Meatball Stroganoff or her Bluefish Marinara. I am starting to dry heave a bit just thinking about this.
Then there's the matter of mom's Killer Meatloaf, which my sister and I are CONVINCED mom never actually cooked, but instead, she'd mix up the meatloaf and leave it out on the counter, unrefrigerated, until the sad, murky meat-slab turned brown and serve it up to us. It IS plausible, especially given how every time we'd eat her meatloaf, we'd all get sick. Every last one of the 5 of us, 6 if you include this one friend who was like a stray cat at dinner time, every last one of us sick, with a solitary toilet for us to all compete. TMI: Trust me. Nearly everything can be used as a toilet if you are desperate enough.
Then there's the matter of birthdays, and how she'd use food to control the tone of our "special day." And this isn't something unique to me, everyone has a story. Every year for nearly 30 years, mom would make a German Chocolate Cake for my brother as she got it in her head that was his favorite--no dice, his favorite is an Italian rum cake!
The very last birthday I decided to give her access to me was the year I turned 31. Before the visit, she asked what I wanted for my birthday dinner and birthday cake. "Sirloin salad and red velvet cake" was my reply. This was the first and last of my birthdays where the Maharajah attended. And I guess mom changed the menu up thinking "he's Indian, Indians like HOT food" and she made roasted chicken parts and then promptly dumped an entire jar of Italian style pickled peppers on top (the dish was damn near inedible). And my birthday cake? Entenmann's crumb. And in keeping with her lack of Give a Fuck, she didn't even invest in a small box of birthday candles, and instead, jammed a 12 inch taper candle in the cake. The whole thing was so regrettable.
The only thing that could even come close to the birthday meal fuckery is mom's birthday gift bestowment. This was done so regularly, it almost is a trademark: she'd wait until the last possible moment to run to the supermarket or pharmacy and buy the first random piece of crap she could. She would hand the gift recipient the bag from the supermarket or pharmacy--and inside it would be: an unsigned birthday card, a roll of tape, a new Bic pen, a packet of gift wrap, and the shitty gift, unwrapped. She couldn't give a shit enough to wrap the gift or sign the card.
The last birthday gift she ever got me was when I was 30 and was in the throes of leaving my exhusband. She went to the supermarket and bought some random clown marionette, making some claim that I should hang it above my bed, given the bed is probably seeing a lot of action with all the CLOWNS I date.
March 1st is her birthday. And I will get her the same thing I get her every year: a box of assorted sugar free chocolates. On the surface at least, it looks like a nice gift. My gift is passive-aggressive as all fuck, given mom has ZERO impulse control, and will eat the entire box pretty much all in ONE GO, shoveling each piece into her gaping maw before the previous piece is done being chewed or swallowed. She does this without fail, without exception, despite the box having a warning on it that "excess consumption causes diarrhea."
IMHO, a "thank you" or other acknowledgment is the gift you give in return when someone does something nice for you. She "thanks" me the next day, in the form of a voicemail where she snarls into the phone about how my gift made her so sick/shit her pants--never once thinking that the chocolate didn't make her sick, but her LACK OF CONTROL was what made her sick. But whatever.
So, to know the consistent diet of regrettable foods she'd serve us, and now know she's a captive audience at Shady Pines and they are serving HER regrettable food, it is karma in action, imho.
I have gone most of my life with the awareness that, in all probability, I wasn't going to get an inheritance, when I cast my gaze upon that welfare dog with the double dose of cabbage, I cannot help but think for at least a petty hot second, "that's where my inheritance is being spent." On a tiny, tiny level, I did have a hope of a consolation prize for the assortment of abuse and fuckery I received from my mother.
Before I get ahead of myself, here is a photo of what her dinner on Sunday was, at Shady Pines. Now mind you, she is on "self pay," and we're still waiting for the sale of her house to go through.
Now I'm not a tube steak snob. I've been known to have a hotdog (on an actual hot dog bun!) and some cole slaw for dinner; however, if I paid someone $11,000 a MONTH for my room and board (et al), I'd expect more than this. And yet, there's a bit of irony, knowing how mom worked for 25 years in the kitchen of a nursing home--oh those poor souls! As if they didn't have enough troubles, landing them in a nursing home, but to eat mom's cooking on top of that? Surely it's one of the inner rings of Dante's hell.
Food has always been a continual theme in mom's life--food controlled her, and by extension, she controlled us with food.
Years ago, I worked with a friend whose mom was from Ireland, and she boiled everything. She and I would go toe-to-toe, story by story, inventorying particular dishes each of our moms made that we were forced to choke back. I don't remember which of my mom's particular dishes won that contest, whether it was her grease-laden Meatball Stroganoff or her Bluefish Marinara. I am starting to dry heave a bit just thinking about this.
Then there's the matter of mom's Killer Meatloaf, which my sister and I are CONVINCED mom never actually cooked, but instead, she'd mix up the meatloaf and leave it out on the counter, unrefrigerated, until the sad, murky meat-slab turned brown and serve it up to us. It IS plausible, especially given how every time we'd eat her meatloaf, we'd all get sick. Every last one of the 5 of us, 6 if you include this one friend who was like a stray cat at dinner time, every last one of us sick, with a solitary toilet for us to all compete. TMI: Trust me. Nearly everything can be used as a toilet if you are desperate enough.
Then there's the matter of birthdays, and how she'd use food to control the tone of our "special day." And this isn't something unique to me, everyone has a story. Every year for nearly 30 years, mom would make a German Chocolate Cake for my brother as she got it in her head that was his favorite--no dice, his favorite is an Italian rum cake!
The very last birthday I decided to give her access to me was the year I turned 31. Before the visit, she asked what I wanted for my birthday dinner and birthday cake. "Sirloin salad and red velvet cake" was my reply. This was the first and last of my birthdays where the Maharajah attended. And I guess mom changed the menu up thinking "he's Indian, Indians like HOT food" and she made roasted chicken parts and then promptly dumped an entire jar of Italian style pickled peppers on top (the dish was damn near inedible). And my birthday cake? Entenmann's crumb. And in keeping with her lack of Give a Fuck, she didn't even invest in a small box of birthday candles, and instead, jammed a 12 inch taper candle in the cake. The whole thing was so regrettable.
The only thing that could even come close to the birthday meal fuckery is mom's birthday gift bestowment. This was done so regularly, it almost is a trademark: she'd wait until the last possible moment to run to the supermarket or pharmacy and buy the first random piece of crap she could. She would hand the gift recipient the bag from the supermarket or pharmacy--and inside it would be: an unsigned birthday card, a roll of tape, a new Bic pen, a packet of gift wrap, and the shitty gift, unwrapped. She couldn't give a shit enough to wrap the gift or sign the card.
The last birthday gift she ever got me was when I was 30 and was in the throes of leaving my exhusband. She went to the supermarket and bought some random clown marionette, making some claim that I should hang it above my bed, given the bed is probably seeing a lot of action with all the CLOWNS I date.
March 1st is her birthday. And I will get her the same thing I get her every year: a box of assorted sugar free chocolates. On the surface at least, it looks like a nice gift. My gift is passive-aggressive as all fuck, given mom has ZERO impulse control, and will eat the entire box pretty much all in ONE GO, shoveling each piece into her gaping maw before the previous piece is done being chewed or swallowed. She does this without fail, without exception, despite the box having a warning on it that "excess consumption causes diarrhea."
IMHO, a "thank you" or other acknowledgment is the gift you give in return when someone does something nice for you. She "thanks" me the next day, in the form of a voicemail where she snarls into the phone about how my gift made her so sick/shit her pants--never once thinking that the chocolate didn't make her sick, but her LACK OF CONTROL was what made her sick. But whatever.
So, to know the consistent diet of regrettable foods she'd serve us, and now know she's a captive audience at Shady Pines and they are serving HER regrettable food, it is karma in action, imho.
I have gone most of my life with the awareness that, in all probability, I wasn't going to get an inheritance, when I cast my gaze upon that welfare dog with the double dose of cabbage, I cannot help but think for at least a petty hot second, "that's where my inheritance is being spent." On a tiny, tiny level, I did have a hope of a consolation prize for the assortment of abuse and fuckery I received from my mother.
Monday, November 20, 2017
Non-Update Update
Not much to report here, at the moment.
The estate liquidator has flaked yet again, leaving us precisely where we were on October 14th, when she came by for the walk through--which is to say, EVEN FURTHER BEHIND THE 8 BALL than we were, THANKS AUDREY!
We signed a contract, so WE cannot back out of it; however, we are just waiting until THEY decide to emerge out of obscurity, at which point, the house will probably be sold at that point in time. FUCK THESE PEOPLE.
And we are one day away from the date of foreclosure on my brother's house.
What a train wreck all of this has become.
So much in life comes right down to timing. Rather than lead us all on this stupid vanity trip of Audrey half assing her way through rehab, had she been honest with herself (AND MORE IMPORTANTLY--US!), we could have used the two months she languished and half-assed through rehab, to empty the house. But instead, we get one week's notice that "oh by the way, I've decided to stay" and a week later, my sister got a $13K bill from Shady Pines. And the timing of the YentaBeast doing the five year long con, setting the stage for my brother to become, essentially, homeless. Fuck her too. These two hags are two peas in a fetid pod.
Even my family halfway around the glob are going through something similar. They are selling their previous property, and were depending on the financing from the buyer to go through by now, so my brother-in-law sells the ONLY FAMILY VEHICLE, thinking he can buy a new one SOON, and even halfway around the globe, people are disappointing, deceiving fucks.
The recap:
Audrey's house isn't empty & sold;
Brother's house is about to be foreclosed;
Brother ended up in ER due to defibrillator;
Brother hasn't suffered fatal cardiac attack, yet;
Sister hasn't suffered fatal cardiac attack, yet;
Brother hasn't gone out in a misguided blaze of glory in a murder-suicide, yet;
Estate liquidators are MIA.
Here endeth the non-update update.
The estate liquidator has flaked yet again, leaving us precisely where we were on October 14th, when she came by for the walk through--which is to say, EVEN FURTHER BEHIND THE 8 BALL than we were, THANKS AUDREY!
We signed a contract, so WE cannot back out of it; however, we are just waiting until THEY decide to emerge out of obscurity, at which point, the house will probably be sold at that point in time. FUCK THESE PEOPLE.
And we are one day away from the date of foreclosure on my brother's house.
What a train wreck all of this has become.
So much in life comes right down to timing. Rather than lead us all on this stupid vanity trip of Audrey half assing her way through rehab, had she been honest with herself (AND MORE IMPORTANTLY--US!), we could have used the two months she languished and half-assed through rehab, to empty the house. But instead, we get one week's notice that "oh by the way, I've decided to stay" and a week later, my sister got a $13K bill from Shady Pines. And the timing of the YentaBeast doing the five year long con, setting the stage for my brother to become, essentially, homeless. Fuck her too. These two hags are two peas in a fetid pod.
Even my family halfway around the glob are going through something similar. They are selling their previous property, and were depending on the financing from the buyer to go through by now, so my brother-in-law sells the ONLY FAMILY VEHICLE, thinking he can buy a new one SOON, and even halfway around the globe, people are disappointing, deceiving fucks.
The recap:
Audrey's house isn't empty & sold;
Brother's house is about to be foreclosed;
Brother ended up in ER due to defibrillator;
Brother hasn't suffered fatal cardiac attack, yet;
Sister hasn't suffered fatal cardiac attack, yet;
Brother hasn't gone out in a misguided blaze of glory in a murder-suicide, yet;
Estate liquidators are MIA.
Here endeth the non-update update.
Thursday, November 9, 2017
Yesterday and Today
Just a quickie post of sorts.
I was in NYC for appointments yesterday. One of which was with my therapist, who I normally do phone in sessions. I was in the city for another appointment and I figured it would be nice to have an in person session if possible. The entire session was devoted to pretty much what I dump here in this blog.
This morning, as I'm packing my bag for work, I check my phone, and fuck-me-running, Audrey called AGAIN. This time at 8:02. I know this is where some other person would say, "I'm sorry but this is not an appropriate time for someone to call me," only problem is, I AM NOT SORRY. This is inappropriate.
Reason for the call: She's concerned she hasn't heard from me, and oh by the way, call your brother.
Um. No. I will not call him. Why? Because clearly, he knows I am the one who has suffered through a divorce, and yet, inexplicably, for whatever reason, he has decided NOT to loop me in (personally) in regards to what is going on with him, and I am not about to stick my nose in where it is clearly not wanted.
Also, my sister is on vacation this week, so, again, NO THANK YOU, I won't be answering my phone at all those weird hours.
Bottom line: Mom is in a stable environment. There is no way in hell I am going to answer the phone during these times:
Early a.m.: I am getting ready for work
During the day: I am at work
7:30: We are having dinner
Also, I don't trust myself at this point. I don't trust that I will be able to keep my composure while on the phone with her. I am thoroughly BORED by her, her narcissism, her pathetic nature, etc etc. DONE, in fact. I am totally devoid of fucks with which to dispense towards Audrey and the on going soap opera that is her life, aka "As the Stomach Churns."
And the more she calls me at inappropriate times, the less inclined I am to answer the phone or call her back.
I was in NYC for appointments yesterday. One of which was with my therapist, who I normally do phone in sessions. I was in the city for another appointment and I figured it would be nice to have an in person session if possible. The entire session was devoted to pretty much what I dump here in this blog.
This morning, as I'm packing my bag for work, I check my phone, and fuck-me-running, Audrey called AGAIN. This time at 8:02. I know this is where some other person would say, "I'm sorry but this is not an appropriate time for someone to call me," only problem is, I AM NOT SORRY. This is inappropriate.
Reason for the call: She's concerned she hasn't heard from me, and oh by the way, call your brother.
Um. No. I will not call him. Why? Because clearly, he knows I am the one who has suffered through a divorce, and yet, inexplicably, for whatever reason, he has decided NOT to loop me in (personally) in regards to what is going on with him, and I am not about to stick my nose in where it is clearly not wanted.
Also, my sister is on vacation this week, so, again, NO THANK YOU, I won't be answering my phone at all those weird hours.
Bottom line: Mom is in a stable environment. There is no way in hell I am going to answer the phone during these times:
Early a.m.: I am getting ready for work
During the day: I am at work
7:30: We are having dinner
Also, I don't trust myself at this point. I don't trust that I will be able to keep my composure while on the phone with her. I am thoroughly BORED by her, her narcissism, her pathetic nature, etc etc. DONE, in fact. I am totally devoid of fucks with which to dispense towards Audrey and the on going soap opera that is her life, aka "As the Stomach Churns."
And the more she calls me at inappropriate times, the less inclined I am to answer the phone or call her back.
Tuesday, September 12, 2017
Monthly Care Meeting
Yesterday was the second care meeting for mom. She's delusional. She thinks she can just check herself out of the nursing home and go home. She's out of her mind. How will she get home? She can't fit in any of our cars. How will she deal with day to day life? She can't afford a live in nurse. She's convinced if she stays at Shady Pines, she'll "wither and die."
She's still accusing my sister of holding her against her will at the nursing home (incorrect). She's now blaming my sister for the fact mom is at the home at all. Of course, it'd be easier to deflect blame onto my sister (or anyone else for that matter) than to realize the only person to blame is my mother, herself, for the current state of things.
It's taken my sister ten years longer than myself to establish and maintain boundaries. She's only seeing mom once a week (and to be honest, I think 1x a week is too much, especially for someone so thankless and abusive).
Looks like she's either sweet talked (or coerced with some promise of financial gain) one of our cousins (who, in addition to being a certifiable flake, also has THREE daughters who are on the autism spectrum--all of whom are now in their 20s, and I don't know if they live with her or what), to commit to doing two days of home care or companionship a week (pretty big commitment, since the cousin lives over an hour away from mom).
If the cousin doesn't flake out and does manage to be dependable, that would mean HER mom (mom's first cousin) would then be privy to all kinds of insider information about mom, mom's finances, home, plus the never-ending-stream of criticisms mom has about EVERYONE.
Perhaps this cousin, much like mom's friend "B," are the last people to suffer mom's wrath.
I said to my sister about the idea of our cousin doing home care for mom, "Let her. Mom will wear out her welcome quick enough. Let mom check herself out of Shady Pines. And let her next fall be a fatal one on a day when our cousin isn't there. Why should we give a shit, when she doesn't?"
She's still accusing my sister of holding her against her will at the nursing home (incorrect). She's now blaming my sister for the fact mom is at the home at all. Of course, it'd be easier to deflect blame onto my sister (or anyone else for that matter) than to realize the only person to blame is my mother, herself, for the current state of things.
It's taken my sister ten years longer than myself to establish and maintain boundaries. She's only seeing mom once a week (and to be honest, I think 1x a week is too much, especially for someone so thankless and abusive).
Looks like she's either sweet talked (or coerced with some promise of financial gain) one of our cousins (who, in addition to being a certifiable flake, also has THREE daughters who are on the autism spectrum--all of whom are now in their 20s, and I don't know if they live with her or what), to commit to doing two days of home care or companionship a week (pretty big commitment, since the cousin lives over an hour away from mom).
If the cousin doesn't flake out and does manage to be dependable, that would mean HER mom (mom's first cousin) would then be privy to all kinds of insider information about mom, mom's finances, home, plus the never-ending-stream of criticisms mom has about EVERYONE.
Perhaps this cousin, much like mom's friend "B," are the last people to suffer mom's wrath.
I said to my sister about the idea of our cousin doing home care for mom, "Let her. Mom will wear out her welcome quick enough. Let mom check herself out of Shady Pines. And let her next fall be a fatal one on a day when our cousin isn't there. Why should we give a shit, when she doesn't?"
Tuesday, September 5, 2017
More Telephone Twattery
I was in Vermont all last week, and I *did* try calling her a few times while away; and again, I tried to call her on Saturday. And then the weekend kind of ran away with itself. And here we are on Tuesday.
I tried calling on her cell and on her room phone, and both of which rang and rang, and neither of which have voicemail set up, so pretty much it's as if she's at her own house where the phone is equally fucked and no voicemail set up.
And even if I did call and got her, her memory is so shot from either her glucose issues or the long term use of vicodin and lyrica fucking with her brain function, she forgets things too quick.
So whatever.
I tried calling on her cell and on her room phone, and both of which rang and rang, and neither of which have voicemail set up, so pretty much it's as if she's at her own house where the phone is equally fucked and no voicemail set up.
And even if I did call and got her, her memory is so shot from either her glucose issues or the long term use of vicodin and lyrica fucking with her brain function, she forgets things too quick.
So whatever.
"Get Busy Living, Or Get Busy Dying"
So, the discussion I had with my mom a couple weeks back wen I visited her at Shady Pines. Sorry, I've been remiss. I guess I should just jot this shit down for posterity. In no particular order (given the conversation wasn't very linear anyway), I'll do word vomit in bullet points:
- Life is full of choices, and right now you have two: Get busy living or get busy dying;
- All of us want what is best for you, whether that means you go home or stay here in the nursing facility;
- NONE of us can do what needs to be done to get you back home--THAT IS UP TO YOU;
- Whether you are able to leave the facility or not hinges directly on you fully applying yourself in your rehab, because if you cannot walk unassisted with your walker, you cannot go home;
- There are many valid points to be made if you stay in the nursing home;
- How you verbally shredded your friend "B" should be a tip off to you that you need psychological help--she's the sweetest person, who didn't deserve your venom;
- If they offer counseling and antidepressants, take them;
- If the antidepressants don't work, keep trying a new medication until you find what works;
- Grandpa has been dead since 2012. Nothing can undo the damage he's done, but don't you want to be as happy as you can? Or at least TRY TO BE?;
- WE ARE TALKING ABOUT HOW YOU SPEND THE REST OF YOUR LIFE, HERE;
Wednesday, August 16, 2017
8/16/17
Where to begin? It's been a crazy week. And timing is everything, and this morning, I happened to have an appointment with my pain doctor, as well as a very tightly scheduled session with my therapist (on the phone, on the ride back to the office). And I pretty much stupefied my therapist with the goings-on. And by stupefied, he told me candidly that he was happy but exhausted hearing it all--and he lumped some major praise on me too. And I told him that if this is what a social worker does, I'm not cut out for it!
Like I said, my sister called me last week, so it's been about eight days since, and we've been texting each other regularly.
Saturday I went to Jersey for a visit. As is my norm, I stopped at Delicious Orchards to get a blast of dopamine up front, to bolster or buoy me for visiting my mom--this would be my first visit seeing her in the nursing home. So I loaded myself down with coffee and cheeses and smoked meats, and of course, the cinnamon cider donuts of which I'm so fond, and continued southward.
I set a timer for myself, as I didn't want to lose the whole day (and chances were good mom would've kicked me out of there earlier than I'd like), and set the ringer nice and loud, so she knew when her 15 minute warning was.
The visit was good, and productive, I think. And I will isolate a somewhat linear discussion I had with mom, and the title of that is a line of dialogue from Shawshank Redemption, "Either get busy living, or get busy dying," and save the content of my side of the discussion for a separate post.
As I was gearing up to head to a very late lunch with my sister and niece, my aunt texted me to see how the visit went, and I suggested she call mom herself, as I was en route to see my sister, so a longer discussion would be forthcoming later, and I was interested to see how much of what I said to mom actually TOOK ROOT.
Now, as ever, talking to mom is a dizzying game of "telephone," where she hears what she wants and then parrots back to people what she thinks they want to hear--and oftentimes what she tells other people are outright lies. So I don't know how much of that is the nature of being a granddaughter of a Calabrese nonna, or if it's her borderline personality disorder, or is her memory retention just THAT DODGEY?
The long and the short of it is, mom did manage to process what I had to say, and to know more about what was said, you'll have to wait until I peck out the dialogue--possibly tomorrow.
I arrived at my sister's church (where they were having a rummage sale), just as they were wrapping everything up. I had hoped to go to the bathroom right before seeing her for the first time in 2 years and 7 months; however, as I ran to the restroom, she barrelled out of the ladies room. I gave her a pre-piss hug, and met up with her afterwards in the parish hall.
Before our car pulled out of the lot on our way to get something to eat, I had my niece get out of the car. I had my sister shut her door. And I apologized to my niece for hurting her in May at the bridal shower when I didn't go out of my way to acknowledge her. She hugged me back and said she was confused too, and didn't know how to handle things, either.
Lunch was pleasant, odd, and familiar all at once. We decided not to let mom know we are talking. While, yes, it's cruel to let her continue to think we aren't speaking; however, we both are looking at this as a second chance at being sisters, and are pretty protective of this thing, and don't want mom's interference or influence on it.
We made plans, set boundaries, and hope to manage expectations. Plans have been made where they will come up to see me for Thanksgiving, sleep over and head home on Friday. Other plans have been talked about, classes and what have you. I've only got three more years with my niece before she goes away to college--and I'm hoping she ends up getting interested in an internship in my office for possibly the summer before she graduates--so I'll get her for the summer (perhaps).
We drove back to the church where I got my car, and we managed to talk for another hour or so, and could have gone on longer, and I blurted out, "We need to go. More talking and texting later."
Before heading home, I zapped my aunt a text and asked if she was up for a visit--as I could have benefited from stopping there, as it's a halfway point home, and she declined. I ended up visiting a friend's house, about a half hour from home, ostensibly to tie a rahki on him and give blessings and sweets as I missed the holiday this year. The visit was short, and I must have looked like a wreck (I was on the go for about 13 hours).
I got home and was an absolute wreck.
Not unlike today. So, I used up all my fortitude to get myself washed and dressed and out the door and to the doctor appointment and have the therapy session before work... and my job right now is to be a human potato until the end of the work day, when I can go and get a well deserved deep tissue massage (with a possibility of a hot bath when I get home).
Like I said, my sister called me last week, so it's been about eight days since, and we've been texting each other regularly.
Saturday I went to Jersey for a visit. As is my norm, I stopped at Delicious Orchards to get a blast of dopamine up front, to bolster or buoy me for visiting my mom--this would be my first visit seeing her in the nursing home. So I loaded myself down with coffee and cheeses and smoked meats, and of course, the cinnamon cider donuts of which I'm so fond, and continued southward.
I set a timer for myself, as I didn't want to lose the whole day (and chances were good mom would've kicked me out of there earlier than I'd like), and set the ringer nice and loud, so she knew when her 15 minute warning was.
The visit was good, and productive, I think. And I will isolate a somewhat linear discussion I had with mom, and the title of that is a line of dialogue from Shawshank Redemption, "Either get busy living, or get busy dying," and save the content of my side of the discussion for a separate post.
As I was gearing up to head to a very late lunch with my sister and niece, my aunt texted me to see how the visit went, and I suggested she call mom herself, as I was en route to see my sister, so a longer discussion would be forthcoming later, and I was interested to see how much of what I said to mom actually TOOK ROOT.
Now, as ever, talking to mom is a dizzying game of "telephone," where she hears what she wants and then parrots back to people what she thinks they want to hear--and oftentimes what she tells other people are outright lies. So I don't know how much of that is the nature of being a granddaughter of a Calabrese nonna, or if it's her borderline personality disorder, or is her memory retention just THAT DODGEY?
The long and the short of it is, mom did manage to process what I had to say, and to know more about what was said, you'll have to wait until I peck out the dialogue--possibly tomorrow.
I arrived at my sister's church (where they were having a rummage sale), just as they were wrapping everything up. I had hoped to go to the bathroom right before seeing her for the first time in 2 years and 7 months; however, as I ran to the restroom, she barrelled out of the ladies room. I gave her a pre-piss hug, and met up with her afterwards in the parish hall.
Before our car pulled out of the lot on our way to get something to eat, I had my niece get out of the car. I had my sister shut her door. And I apologized to my niece for hurting her in May at the bridal shower when I didn't go out of my way to acknowledge her. She hugged me back and said she was confused too, and didn't know how to handle things, either.
Lunch was pleasant, odd, and familiar all at once. We decided not to let mom know we are talking. While, yes, it's cruel to let her continue to think we aren't speaking; however, we both are looking at this as a second chance at being sisters, and are pretty protective of this thing, and don't want mom's interference or influence on it.
We made plans, set boundaries, and hope to manage expectations. Plans have been made where they will come up to see me for Thanksgiving, sleep over and head home on Friday. Other plans have been talked about, classes and what have you. I've only got three more years with my niece before she goes away to college--and I'm hoping she ends up getting interested in an internship in my office for possibly the summer before she graduates--so I'll get her for the summer (perhaps).
We drove back to the church where I got my car, and we managed to talk for another hour or so, and could have gone on longer, and I blurted out, "We need to go. More talking and texting later."
Before heading home, I zapped my aunt a text and asked if she was up for a visit--as I could have benefited from stopping there, as it's a halfway point home, and she declined. I ended up visiting a friend's house, about a half hour from home, ostensibly to tie a rahki on him and give blessings and sweets as I missed the holiday this year. The visit was short, and I must have looked like a wreck (I was on the go for about 13 hours).
I got home and was an absolute wreck.
Not unlike today. So, I used up all my fortitude to get myself washed and dressed and out the door and to the doctor appointment and have the therapy session before work... and my job right now is to be a human potato until the end of the work day, when I can go and get a well deserved deep tissue massage (with a possibility of a hot bath when I get home).
Tuesday, August 8, 2017
Mom, Today 8/8/17
Last time I spoke to her was Friday, right before she was being transported to the rehab facility. My aunt provided me mom's phone # and room #, and despite attempts on Sunday and Monday, there was no answer on mom's room phone. Today, I decided to call in the middle of the day, and I managed to get a hold of her.
She sounded more "with it" than on Thursday (the call wherein she conveyed she feels like my sister is holding her against her will) and my chat on Friday was so brief, I didn't get much of a handle on her mental state that day. But today she sounds more like herself, albeit a bit tired--and I thought for a hot second perhaps they had her on antidepressants.
She rehashed a bit of what she said in Thursday's conversation, and when she just barely touched on the notion of being held against her will, I asked her pointedly, "How much do you trust me?" She replied, "With my life. Just like you trusted me with yours." (I suspect she meant while I was still in her belly.)
I then blurted out, "Don't make me cry. But how much do you trust me? And even though you DO trust me, IF you didn't trust me, you trust your sister, right? Well, we both do not believe you are being held against your will. So get that thought out of your head. When that crazy voice starts talking, you tell that voice to STFU." My pep talk continued.
"And even though people aren't visiting or calling you every day, you have a LOT of people who are thinking of you, and hoping for the best. Your first job you need to do right now is sleep as much as you can. You can't rush a bone healing. Your SECOND job right now is to do the best you can and apply yourself when you go for your daily physical therapy. Your mindset is JUST as important." You need to keep yourself mentally strong." It was at this point she informed me that my brother told her the same thing.
One good thing to come out of this chat is that she has a social worker she spoke with either today or yesterday. And I told mom to make good use out of those chats, and to speak with the social worker every opportunity she has.
I think it was a good chat. Who knows which version of mom's personality I'll encounter when I talk to her tomorrow. But at least in this moment, she trusts me with her life, and my call served to remind her she's not alone.
I feel a bit weird tagging this with the DeathWatch 2017 tag, but the tag stays put. For now.
She sounded more "with it" than on Thursday (the call wherein she conveyed she feels like my sister is holding her against her will) and my chat on Friday was so brief, I didn't get much of a handle on her mental state that day. But today she sounds more like herself, albeit a bit tired--and I thought for a hot second perhaps they had her on antidepressants.
She rehashed a bit of what she said in Thursday's conversation, and when she just barely touched on the notion of being held against her will, I asked her pointedly, "How much do you trust me?" She replied, "With my life. Just like you trusted me with yours." (I suspect she meant while I was still in her belly.)
I then blurted out, "Don't make me cry. But how much do you trust me? And even though you DO trust me, IF you didn't trust me, you trust your sister, right? Well, we both do not believe you are being held against your will. So get that thought out of your head. When that crazy voice starts talking, you tell that voice to STFU." My pep talk continued.
"And even though people aren't visiting or calling you every day, you have a LOT of people who are thinking of you, and hoping for the best. Your first job you need to do right now is sleep as much as you can. You can't rush a bone healing. Your SECOND job right now is to do the best you can and apply yourself when you go for your daily physical therapy. Your mindset is JUST as important." You need to keep yourself mentally strong." It was at this point she informed me that my brother told her the same thing.
One good thing to come out of this chat is that she has a social worker she spoke with either today or yesterday. And I told mom to make good use out of those chats, and to speak with the social worker every opportunity she has.
I think it was a good chat. Who knows which version of mom's personality I'll encounter when I talk to her tomorrow. But at least in this moment, she trusts me with her life, and my call served to remind her she's not alone.
I feel a bit weird tagging this with the DeathWatch 2017 tag, but the tag stays put. For now.
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