Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Wednesday, July 07, 2010
So here’s something that doesn’t happen every day. My mother threw a surprise funeral at me.
The day started like any other day, normal, ish, or what passes for normal for me, now. I got up, took a shower, went downstairs, packed up my laptop for my daily trek to the library to use their free wi-fi to troll for jobs.
“Dear, I was hoping you’d go with me to the funeral home this afternoon, around 2:00,” my mother very nonchalantly called out from the dining room.
My mother’s had a slew of funerals recently. Friends and family have been dropping like dominoes. I presumed another one of her friends died and she wanted me to accompany her to the visitation.
“Okay, Mum, who died?”
“I made an appointment for myself.”
Scratch of record.
“Huh? Is there something you need to tell me?”
“You know I’ve been wanting to get this done since before your dad died. I don’t want to wait any longer.”
“This” is funeral pre-planning. My mother was all over it for several years before my dad died but he wouldn’t have anything to do with it. It creeped him out and he had a sort of denial issue. He didn’t think he was immortal but he thought he had loads of years left to take care of “it.” And he felt that planning your own funeral is like throwing yourself a birthday party: Tacky and kind of weird. My mother did the research and presented all the practical and emotional reasons why pre-planning is a good idea but he wouldn’t budge on the issue. My mother wasn’t standing with hands on hips harrumphing “I told you so” when he died without pre-planned “arrangements,” but she was determined to make her “arrangements” so when the time comes no one will have to go through what we went through in the hours and days after my dad died: A bunch of trips to the funeral home, loads of forms and phone calls, decisions to be made and far too much conjecture over what “he would want.”
Almost two years has passed since my dad died. (which I cannot believe, grief is super weird that way) And my mother has yet to make her “arrangements.” She didn’t want to go alone to make the plans, but she didn’t want to “put anyone through that.” At one point there was even a deal struck with a friend: They would go with each other to pre-plan each others’ funeral. Her friend’s children intercepted, though, and my mother was left without a funeral planning partner. It’s been weighing heavy on her mind. She talked about it sometimes, said she wanted to get over there and take care of it, hinted to me and my sister, talked to a cousin about it, we all told her we’d go with her.
Apparently she decided the time was right and since I’m here, with her, now, she struck while the iron was hot, made an appointment and sprang it on me just like that.
I’m from a super small town. We know the family who owns the funeral home. Which makes the whole thing even more surreal.
Upon arrival at the funeral home we were greeted by the daughter of the funeral director. She’s in the family business, the next generation. She’s making a few changes. She goes by the title “Memorial Specialist.” Call yourself whatever you want, you still work at a funeral home managing funerals which makes you a funeral director. She had a baby a few months ago. She was armed with photos and a video on her iPhone. And a lengthy story about the labor and delivery. Yes. We were there to plan my mother’s funeral and spent 20 minutes talking about a baby’s birth. Cue The Circle of Life. The funeral director and his wife joined us and much chat and town gossip was exchanged.
And, oh yeah, we planned my mother’s funeral. With my basically healthy mother leading the meeting.
Yes. It’s as morbid as it sounds. Yes. It’s as bizarre as it sounds. Yes. It’s as depressing as it sounds. Yes. It’s as surreal as it sounds.
And yes, it’s as pragmatic, thoughtful and mind-easing as it sounds.
We said, "Do exactly what you did for Dad.” The first thing we discovered is that in just two years' time the cost has increased $1,500. Upon this discovery my mother was both smug and irritated. She shot simultaneous “I told you so” and “did you hear that?” looks at me.
The pre-payment/arranging makes financial sense. We get it. Thank you friendly neighborhood funeral director, erm “memorial specialist.” We don’t need a Power Point presentation with pie charts and bar graphs to show the cost savings. Death is big business and we’re merely vulnerable pawns in the game. If you go in with that attitude, all business and cynical of the industry, you’ll get through the whole thing unscathed.
That is until it’s time to go over the obituary details. Much to my surprise my mother pulled out a handwritten obituary scribed on three pages of legal paper. Wow. She really has been thinking about this a lot. Alrighty then. Did you ever have the class assignment of writing your own obituary? Usually it’s a junior year English class assignment. It’s not easy, especially when you’re in high school. I tried it a few times since and it doesn’t get easier, for some of us it gets a heck of a lot more difficult than others. In my case, not a lot has changed since my high school version and that’s the really disturbing part. Still single, still childless, still leading what on paper looks like a pointless, meaningless existence, except now I’m preceded in death by my father. My mother, though, my mother wrote three swutting legal pad pages of an obituary. She handed it over to the funeral director, erm, “memorial specialist” and said, “I found a book in the library on obituaries. The kids can change it or update it if they want. They might move or get married or have kids…” She was talking about all of her kids and grandkids but staring straight at me. Okay, I get it, okay? I look like a total loser in your obituary. I need to get my life together. I get it. Again, if you can focus on the life aspect, all the details of life and how it’s life affirming to reflect on your life then it’s not so awful. I guess.
That is until it’s time to go into the casket room to make The Choice. That’s the part I was dreading most.
One of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to do was choose a casket for my father. Obvious reasons, of course, but compounded by the alarming similarities between buying a casket and buying a car. There were no plaid polyester sportcoat wearing desperate jerks saying, “What do I have to do to put you in this casket today?” but…close. You have to choose wood or metal, and within those choices there are several levels and price ranges. There are showy customized Cadillacs, standard simple Chevys, fuel efficient practical Hondas and utility all terrain Hummers. The funeral director, erm, “memorial specialist” leads you in, points out the wood and metal areas, shows you how to read the price cards and then leaves you alone to wander the floor. Just like at a car dealership. They step aside, let you get a feel for what you like but they’re there, always ready to answer questions and pounce on the sales opportunity. We went with a mid-range Oldsmobuick for my dad. I say “we” but not in the literal sense. It was my mother and me who were there to make the choice, my brother and sister weren’t there, I had to snap a couple photos, text them and cell phone conference with them about the pros and cons of the models under consideration. The whole experience reminded me so much of visiting a car dealership that I giggled at how my dad would have thought the same thing. The whole time we were looking at caskets and vaults I was thinking of how he taught me how to navigate the tricky mine-filled turf of the car dealership. Never, ever show enthusiasm, make a big show of pointing out all the aspects you don’t like, take a long, detail driven look at the sticker, act unimpressed, choose a few options you don’t like, make a big fuss-budgety show about getting out a calculator and then recalculate the sticker price minus the options you don’t like, take a look under the hood, smirk, stand back and focus on a spot on the side, hone in on it, scrutinize it, mention the updated styling on a competing model and the better trade reviews of said competing model and then…walk away. Just walk away.
Unfortunately when my dad died we didn’t have the option of just walking away from the casket and vault showroom. We had to make a decision right then. We had to decide and purchase right then. My dad was dead and lying on a slab waiting for us to decide on a less sterile and more comfortable place to lie down. Forever.
And now, two years later, there we were in the same showroom shopping for my mother’s casket and vault. This time we had time to play the game, to scrutinize and just walk away. You don’t have to buy your casket and vault from the funeral home. Costco sells them for crying out loud. But. It’s a heck of a lot easier if you do buy it at the funeral home. My mother and I looked into buying the casket elsewhere. There are transfer issues and in some cases even storage issues. We found it’s not worth saving $300 on the sticker price because of all the additional fees and logistic issues.
My mother was thoroughly pragmatic about all of it. I was awed and proud of her. And embarrassed. Her Scot showed in trying to bargain with the funeral director, erm “memorial specialist” regarding the interior of one of the caskets. Sure, my mother had a point, we didn't care for the display interior and since there is no urgency in getting the casket ordering one with the different, less fancy interior shouldn't cost more. In the end we found one she liked. I liked it, too, (inasmuch as you can "like" your mother's casket). But then she got all bothered by the fact that it was $400 more than what my dad's casket cost. She thought "they" should spend the same amount on their caskets and she doesn't like the idea that hers cost more than his. Seriously.
And there's the small town social issue, too. If her casket and funeral look more "showy" than my dad's, well, you know. That's not cool. People will talk. Small town.
Ultimately I convinced her it was worth the extra $400 because the interior is a better color for her and she'll look better in it than the less expensive one she was considering. Yes. I stood in a casket showroom deliberating between casket interiors convincing my mother to spend $400 more than the cost of my dad’s casket because the interior is a better color for her. Bizarre moments of my life for $500, please Alex.
She's also bothered that they won't guarantee the hairdressing fee. She pre-paid $45 which is the hair styling rate now, but that's one fee that’s not guaranteed because obviously hair stylists' rates increase. If it's 20 years from now who knows what it'll cost to get her hair done? Nonetheless she argued that she only spends $17 to get her hair styled now, not $45.
“I don’t go to the [fancy salon], Marge does a better job for half the price,” my mother leaned in conspiratorially to the funeral director’s daughter, as if she was letting her in on a big deal, an insider trading tip.
“Yeah, but Mum, Marge doesn’t do dead people’s hair and even if she did I’m sure she’d charge more than $17,” I interjected, completely embarrassed by my mother’s frugality over her would-be final hair style.
My mother wouldn’t let it drop. And yes, yes, she has a point. The funeral people kept pointing out that she’s paying “today’s rates” for a funeral that could take place 20 years from now, and the savings are exponential. My mother doesn’t pay $45 to get her hair styled now so the exponential rate is skewed.
By her calculations the funeral home hair stylist is currently charging $28 too much, enough to pad the exponential inflation between now and whenever my mother gets her final hair style.
When the funeral director’s daughter tried to explain the details of dead hair styling my mother shut down. She went stubborn and didn’t want to hear reason or reasons. This is what differentiates funeral directors, erm, “memorial specialists” from car salesmen. A car salesman senses when a potential sale is shutting down and the car salesman will back off and give in, throw the car purchaser a bone, free undercoating or mudflaps in order to keep the sale. The funeral director’s daughter either didn’t sense my mother’s shutting down and how close she was to just walking away, or, the funeral director’s daughter didn’t care. She knows she’ll get my mother in the end, one way or another. Pay now, pay later, whatever, ultimately the funeral home will get the sale.
My mother then went down the road of "I don't really need to get it done anyway, just make sure it's combed, just take that out of our bill, I don't need anyone to style my hair when I'm dead."
I kid you not, a) my mother's too cheap to get her hair fixed for her own funeral and b) she found a way to embarrass me at the funeral home while pre-arranging her funeral.
I finally said I'd pay for any additional hair styling fee that may be incurred.
"I'll pay to get your hair done when you die, okay? I'm not having visitation and a funeral with you lying there with your hair not done."
“When it looks like I’m checking out call Marge and have her come to do my hair. It usually lasts three days. That should get me through visitation and the funeral. No one sees the back, anyway.”
“Okay, Mum. I’ll do that.”
Yeah. Big fun.
Afterward she was still fussing about the cost, wondering how to shave off a few dollars here and there in the funeral package so that it would equal the amount spent on my dad's funeral. “You can buy a guestbook somewhere else, you don’t need to spend $75 on theirs” “Can’t you print the memorial cards on your nice printer? That would save $150.” “I bet if we call the casket company directly we could bargain a better deal on that interior we liked. We could use our own pillow. You know I like my own pillow anyway.”
She also has a few choice words about how the funeral home gets to "work" her money until she dies. Keep in mind, my mother is friends with the funeral director and his wife. She sputtered about how while she wants it done and paid for now, the funeral business is all a racket with profiteering ghouls taking advantage of the vulnerable bereaved. Then she went on to say how nice our "memorial specialist" is and how adorable the new baby is and how they're such a lovely family.
Still. I'm glad it's done and I know (apart from the financial aspects) my mother is relieved and happy to have it done and paid for and all planned. Even if the funeral home is working her money from now until she dies, it's like life insurance: It's there, it's done, do it, forget about it and reap contentment.
Throughout the whole experience I made myself go void of emotion. “This is a practical, logical, mature thing to do. Focus on the practicalities, the reasons for pre-planning, instead of on the fact that you’re sitting in a funeral home discussing your mother’s funeral with your basically healthy mother.” Because of and in spite of her reasons for wanting to pre-plan I’m proud of my mother. Dealing with your own death is probably the most life-affirming thing you can do. Yes, there is now a file at the funeral home with my mother’s name on it. Yes, there is a casket and vault with my mother’s name on it. Yes, there is an obituary written and a photo on file for the paper. Yes, yes, yes, it’s all very morbid and depressing. But my mother is still very much alive and sleeping much better knowing “it’s all arranged” and paid for and when she dies us kids won’t have to go through “that” again. And, she has exactly what she wants, there will be no conjecturing about “what she’d want.”
And think of the money she’s saving. Nothing says, “I’ve got a lot of life left to live” like getting a good deal and saving money.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
There are lots of milestones in life, big ones, small ones, ones that you anticipate for a long time, eagerly, and others you shove to the cellar of your brain leaving them to lurk there in the dark, denying and repressing them as best as possible, but, you know if you continue to live those not so eagerly anticipated milestones are going to present themselves in your life. Ready or not, here they come.
A milestone was recently hit by a family member. It was an eagerly anticipated and happy milestone. My goodness they grow up so fast...
My parents have been helping this particular family member reach the milestone. Not just my parents - most of my family has liberally doled out support of all types over the past years in pursuit of this milestone. So. You know, A Big Deal.
My family's been in milestone limbo for a few years. Which is my fault. My milestones were next on the anticipated milestone timeline. Marriage. Children. My turn. But. Since we are all (except my mother) now no longer holding out any real or serious hope or plans for either of those milestones, my turn on the timeline has been skipped and passed onto the next stop on the family milestone timeline.
Ouch. That hurts. But. Well. I tried. I failed.
I forfeited my turns on the timeline.
Right. So. We've been in eager anticipated limbo for a few years, mainly due to my failure to get married and have children. My failures at these milestones caused a big gap in the eagerly anticipated milestone timeline. Consequently my family has had to endure the not so eagerly anticipated milestones without the usual buffer of a reprieve from sorrow and struggle offset by a happy or eagerly anticipated milestone.
My mother's illnesses. My aunt's death. My mother's months on life support. My father's, um, "situation." The unpleasant milestones. They've been flung at my family for the past 18 months without warning, hint or buffer or break. Well. I mean. You know. We all know people get older and with age often comes illness and decline.
Milestones.
But. They blindsided my family and I. I suppose they always do. That's their nature.
But.
Still.
It's all seemed so unlikely and sudden. And besides, we were still stalled at my place on the timeline. My mother shouldn't have been able to get sick, and then sicker, my aunt should not have been able to die until I took my turns on the milestone timeline. They looked forward to my wedding and children from the time I was young. It's what mothers and aunts do. No. They weren't feverishly planning my wedding from my point of entry out of the womb, but, you know, they're normal things to expect and anticipate. My cousins all did it. My sister did it. My brother did it. It was my turn.
And I mean, you know, swut knows people all gave me enough time and elbow room to hit those milestones. People waited. And waited. And hoped. And had a false hope dashed.
And well. Yeah. I mean, time goes on, the timeline continues, albeit with a huge gap where I should have had a few highs marked. I let everyone down with my failure to achieve the normal milestones of life. People, friends, neighbors, church people...distant relatives have stopped wondering "what's wrong with her" and have moved onto the assumption there's something really wrong with me. The kind of hushed tone something really wrong with her. The not so subtle but "fun cajoling" "isn't it time you thought about settling down" remarks have given way to hushed whispers, long suspicious looks and every now and then a pointed finger or dismissive sweep of the hand. "Oh, Trillian. Something really wrong with her. Avoid her. Such a shame. Her poor parents. Such good people. You'd think she'd get herself together at least for their sake."
If you're not from a small town and/or a certain type of family you probably don't believe that sort of process actually takes place. Trust me. It does. Those timelines are public knowledge, calculators and calendars of the passing of time and generations. And when something doesn't happen on the anticipated timeline, people wonder. And talk. We haven't actually come a long way, baby. And woe to any of us who actually really do want marriage and children and can't have either. We search ourselves trying to figure out how to achieve those milestones for our sake and for our family timeline. Every day we fail is an empty day and a larger gap on the milestone timeline. We're very aware all on our own, but add the milestone timeline and social jabbing of expectations and it's not only a lot of pressure, it's embarrassing and most of all, adding to the sad and lonely feelings of emptiness and heartache. I'm not saying everyone needs to be coupled up and reproducing - spare me the email - I know lots of people do not want these things and have to deal with a different sort of set of issues with their families and friends. Oh sure, I'm busy with work and friends and family and all that. I have an okay life, you know, for someone who doesn't actually long for a good relationship and children and a home and all the convention that goes with it. The only reason I'm sad and lonely is because relationships, or rather, one really good relationship, and family, and love and all that, is really important to me. Work, volunteering and hobbies cannot fill those voids. They pass the time, maybe add a little cranial fulfillment, and warm the heart a bit, but it's not the same as a loving relationship and family. But. I have a job and I volunteer and I have hobbies and I'm generally pretty busy, or at least occupied. So I play up that angle, try to act like it's all okay, that I'm on my timeline, that everything's okay. We all know it's not but the best I figure I can do for my parents is to try to pretend I accept and sometimes even want the life I have. I keep thinking maybe I'll actually believe it one of these days. Lonely nights and that big empty place in my heart should be getting more insignificant any day now, right?!
Right. So. Huge gap on the family eager anticipated milestone-o-meter because of me. Lots of really low lows and no real highs to speak of for the past few years.
And along comes the next stop on the milestone timeline. Which is, you know, really cool. Good. People are starting to focus on the next up on the timeline. Eventually they'll forget about me altogether. I can't wait to be shoved into oblivion by the rest of the milestone timeline.
So that's all the stuff brewing in the cellar of my mind. Mainly on those long lonely nights. The rest of the time is consumed with work and my mother. Which is cool. Fine. A husband and children would get in the way of me helping with my mother. As it is I am feeling like I am doing far, far, far from enough for her. I want and need to do more. I try. I have limitations. I'd like to think I do the best I can. I do more than my siblings. But it's not a contest. They have significant others, children, jobs and lives. I have a cat and a job. It makes sense for me to do more. But it's not enough.
How do I know this?
Because someone said something, one phrase, one sentence uttered somewhat offhand, which stung me hard. More than a slap on the face. More like a dagger in the heart and spine.
My mother's in a nursing home. I hate that. I can scarcely bear the thought of it. I'm trying to deal with it. I'm trying to make it okay for her. I'm trying to be positive and up! about it. I'm trying to convince everyone, mainly my parents and myself, that this is temporary. This milestone which should have come a long, long time from now, or better still, not at all, isn't a milestone. It's just a small setback, a minor issue, not an event. Certainly not a milestone event. Just a minor issue which will be resolved because my mother will get better. She will get better. She's getting better. She will get better. It's going to be okay. She will get better.
But.
Then.
Someone said, "Oh, how nice, they let her out for the weekend."
"Let her out."
Let. Her. Out.
A weekend pass.
Let. Her. Out.
Like she's being held in captivity against her will. Imprisoned. Letting her out for the weekend.
That sentence struck me so hard I barely made it to the ladies room in time to hide the hyperventilation and tears which followed that verbal assault.
She is being held. She's not happy about being in a nursing home but, in my mother's usual way, she's making the best of it. The problem is that there isn't really a best of it. It's a nursing home. Nursing homes suck. She's surrounded by people in advanced states of decline and decay. People die there almost every day. She's in the "transient" wing, which is to say at this point they do not consider her a permanent resident waiting to die. Her time there is spent in hopes of rehabilitating her enough to go home. Home home. But they're watching her. Keeping an eye on her. If she doesn't reach her personal milestones there's a room in the permanent resident waiting to die wing waiting for her. Well. That's metaphoric. There's a room in the permanent resident waiting to die wing waiting for all of us. But. She's way too close for my comfort or hers.
So the concept of "letting her out for the weekend" hit hard.
Hearing someone say it reinforced all the brain dark cellar thoughts I've been trying to ignore. It's not that none of us aren't facing the facts, but, well, we're trying to be positive! up! look on the bright side! smiling like we mean it!
And then someone innocently says, "Oh, how nice, they're letting her out for the weekend."
Allowing her to leave because of a huge family milestone.
But she must be returned by Sunday night. The "or else" heavily implied.
It was exciting for my mother.
She hasn't breathed outside air since January.
Because she's been held in captivity.
She was excited but nervous. Her first outing without the aid and relative safety of trained health care professionals and equipment. A wheelchair. A walker. Braces on her leg. Portable oxygen tank. And somewhere in there my mother.
My stylish, buoyant, with it, energetic, independent, always on the go mother trapped in captivity even when she's "let out for the weekend." She wanted to look nice for the event. She's lost so much weight her already small clothes literally fall off her. I've had to purchase all new clothes for her. I try to find stylish but comfy, easy to manage outfits. But infirmary clothes are not my mother's usual style. She's the type who's always put together nicely. She'd never dream of owning (much less wearing) sweats. Casual, yes, but always casually smart, even around the house and out in the garden. But. Now. There she is in her micro sized workout suit and orthopedic shoes. You don't know my mother so you can't comprehend how incongruous this is to how she is. If the circumstances weren't so awful it would be comical. Like she was dressing up for Halloween.
She wanted something nice to wear for the weekend event. I took her magazines and catalogs and department store ads. We came up with a few ideas and eventually I found her an outfit and matching orthopedic shoes. Which she liked, I mean, you know, she was enthused by the relative "properness" of the outfit compared to the stuff she's been wearing. But. Still. I know she would have rather been wearing something very, very different. It was a concession. Her big weekend out and she was stuck wearing what a year ago she would have called an "old lady outfit." It's the shoes, mainly, which really seal the deal. Old lady orthopedic shoes.
It sucks.
It sucks for her and it sucks for everyone who knows and loves her.
It's a milestone.
An unpleasant one.
Fortunately balanced by an eagerly anticipated milestone. One which my mother has contributed heavily for many years. She wouldn't have missed it for anything. It's been her goal for the past weeks. What she was wearing was of no real consequence. The fact that she's even alive is all that matters to any of us. The fact that she was able to be "let out" for the weekend was a huge, huge deal. No one cares what she's wearing, nor, really, does she. But. You know. This is a far cry from what she ever anticipated wearing to this event.
But.
Big picture.
She made it. She saw it happen. Live. In person. On her weekend pass from The Home.
Which is, you know, good. It's all positive and encouraging and all that.
Really. It is. She will get better. She will. (See? Positive! Up! Think no negative, see positive! It is going to be okay! Smile like you mean it and eventually you will!)
But. The fact remains: My mother had to be "let out for the weekend."
We had her on loan.
A milestone within a milestone because of a milestone.
And then we had to return her.
I'm the youngest child. My parents' baby. By a lot of years and a very, very long shot. It's no secret my, um, DNA creation was a surprise. My mother always covers the obvious age gap between my brother and I with, "We had to wait until he was settled nicely into a routine and activities at school...he was such a demanding child we couldn't consider having another baby until he was older..." Which has some basis in fact, some of my brother's pre-8 year old antics are the stuff of legends and Simpson's episodes. Still. We all know the stork knocking on the door with me came as a surprise.
But. My parents were cool with the whole thing. After what they'd been enduring with my brother I'm sure there were concerns of the "oh no, what if she's like him" type. Fortunately for all of us I wasn't like him in the bad ways. Right. So. Just setting the scene there.
My parents got a baby girl who was basically a well behaved, if a bit shy, breath of fresh child rearing air, a last gasp, last chance baby.
And. Well. Sometimes, my mother especially, behaved the way mothers do with what they know is their last baby. She didn't coddle me. Too much. But. There was (and is) no mistaking that I am her baby, her youngest, her last gasp, last baby. We joke about it. We're cool with it. It's okay. I was never that aware of it when I was a kid, it's only as an adult, looking back, that I realize what she was going through.
Once, though, one time, when I was starting kindergarten, a milestone, I remember being very aware that my mother was upset. She normally gently pushed me into new experiences, particularly social experiences (that shy thing was already a big problem) but on my first day of kindergarten, a day which I had been looking forward to for a very long time, my first day of school, off like the big kids to learn all sorts of things, embarking on my educational career (yes. I was a dork) I was eager and ready to trot off on my own, to let go of my mother's hand and boldly (well, for me) face experiences on my own. But. My mother, who usually gently but firmly prodded me into leaving the safety of her hand, pulled me back and hugged me really tightly for a really long time. The difference this time was that I wanted to go, I wanted to let go of her hand and run off on my own to walk into a new room full of kids I didn't know. I was so eager the shyness was secondary, I'd deal with that later. But. There was my mother oddly, after all that prodding the coaxing for me to let go of her, now holding me back and not letting me go. What I remember thinking at the time was, "She's sad. She's going to be alone when I'm at school." So I told her to get my best doll to play with while I was at school. Oh be quiet. I was trying to help. She laughed. We talked about what we'd do when I got home. I left.
And thus began a lifetime of milestone good-byes with consolation efforts and looking forward instead of backwards in an effort to make the good-byes okay. A difficult and uncomfortable hospital stay. I didn't want her to leave me. She had to. Every night she'd pull away and leave me with that best doll and a new book and talk about the next day's steps closer to home. My first slumber party, I couldn't wait to go, she had concerns, I stacked up a bunch of books for her to read just as if I was there and much anticipation of a trip to the library when I got home the next day. Summer camp. I didn't want to go. She pushed. I went. And found a teddy bear sewn into my sleeping bag, low enough so the other girls wouldn't know it was there, but within easy reach at night when things got scary in the tent on the first night, and plans for a family vacation shortly after I got home from camp. A Summer job away for three months. I pulled away and left behind hidden notes and drawings for her to find all over the house while I was gone, and plans for back to school shopping trips upon my return home. College, well, we both struggled with that one...it never ends.
This was going through my mind when we took my mother back to The Home. A weird mix of role reversal and history repeating. I couldn't let go of her. I just could not make my arms let go of her. They can't have you. I'm not giving you to them. They let you out, we managed, and they can't have you back because you don't belong here. You belong at home home, not The Home. My now frail, tiny mother hugged me and with her gentle, but firm, but, very, very weak hands, pushed me away and patted me like all those times she used to do when I was little - "Go on and play with those girls, Trillian, it will be fun!" "Go on, now, Trillian, it's okay, they're nice, you like hopscotch, go on and play with them, they want you to play with them." "I'll be right here waiting for you, go on, it's okay." - "It's okay Trillian, we made it through the weekend, I'm tired, they're taking good care of me, it's okay, they're waiting for me. Maybe next time we'll go home for good." Another milestone which should never have a place on our family timeline.
Yeah, go call your mother and tell her you love her.
Monday, March 27, 2006
UPDATE: Mother
The nursing home sucked. Big time. But it was short lived. My mother developed another health issue which required emergency transport back to intensive care. More emergency procedures. More required surgeries. More morphine. More doctors. More specialists. More tests. More confusion. More anxiety. More helplessness. More fear. More paranoia. More stress. More tears. More wondering how much more she's going to be made to suffer and fearing the answer will come with either more suffering or an abrupt end. But hey, at least she's not in a nursing home.
That's all I have to say about that without going through an entire box of tissues and banging my head against a wall and cursing life, the Universe, God and anyone else I can think of for putting my mother through this.
UPDATE: Lower paying job.
I was very tempted to take that job. But. I couldn't find a less expensive place to live, a way out of my current lease or anyone to sublet my compartment. And I couldn't see any of that happening in the next weeks. And after going over my budget, again, I reached the conclusion: There's nothing left to cut. I won't get into the realizations I discovered when I looked for ways to cut expenses. But let's just say I'm already living on the edge of reality with my finances. I haven't owned a car for years, I rarely spend the money to take public transportation (the bus is a luxury for when I'm feeling flush and it's raining and my asthma's acting up), I have medical expenses, I pay a lot of income taxes, I have next to no social life, there is at least one week in every month that I fast one or two days so I can feed my cat, yet I have permabloat because I'm living on pasta and beans (store brand), when the tea gift basket I received as a gift runs out I'll be drinking nothing but water. I rely on friends' cast offs for clothes, books, movies and magazines.
I know, I know, I dug myself into this hole. I'm not blaming anyone but me - it's all my fault I broke my ankle and got in a car accident and cracked a tooth and had pneumonia which made my asthma worse and racked up thousands of dollars in medical and dental expenses. It's my fault I moved to a compartment I can barely afford even though according to the Chicago Tribune I'm actually paying the low end of the rent scale in the city.
So. Trying to live on $666.666666 less per month: Not feasible. And really kind of stupid to consider. Oh sure, the whole idealistic thing. Peace of mind. Happier mental state. Change is good. All true. But. Change for the worse is not good. I've become so accustomed to making do and doing without that I didn't realize just how meager my needs have become. Oh sure, a pair of shoes on sale now and then, a drink after work once a month or so...but as I took a good look around the compartment I realized: Everything I have is old. Most everything I own is more than five years old, much of it a lot older than that. If it's less than five years old it's either cheap, a gift or a castoff from a friend or relative. No big deal, my needs are small. But. Where in that equation is there room to cut $666.666666 per month from my budget? I pay rent and bills. Whatever little bit is left after that is used to feed the cat and transport myself to visit my sick mother. How's that for sounding pathetic when put in writing? But, there you have it: My life. So no. I didn't take that job. And for the most part I don't regret the decision. I regret that the job didn't pay more, but I don't regret my decision to not take it. Though it does make me shut myself up when I feel angry/resentful/fed up with my boss and job because, you know, hey, I had a way out, another opportunity, and I didn't take it. I chose to stay.
I have a lot more to say about that but I won't because it makes my head hurt.
UPDATE: Blind date guy.
Called to apologize for not taking me to dinner when he said he would. Note that he didn't apologize for being a rude, inconsiderate jerk. Note that he didn't offer to take me out again. But he did apologize for not doing what he said he would. This is called: Trying to assuage his guilt. He now feels absolved of guilt because, hey, he apologized. And then went into a lengthy and very detailed explanation of why it's really all my fault. Yeah, but, he's the one who kept calling and emailing and said he really like you, Trill. How is that your fault?
He explained that to me. "Women like me" need to wake up and realize men don't want us. "Women like me" should get married when we're very young because youth is all we have going for us. "Women like me" need to find satisfaction and fulfillment in their careers and volunteer work. Because "women like me" will never be what men want. Why would a man over 30 date me when there are much prettier younger girls who are just as smart or smarter than me who want to date older, mature men, "like him?" And he went on to point out that even though I'm nice and funny and intelligent (awww, gee, thanks), I'm not good looking or wealthy, (here he made his point by pointing out that I rent a tiny apartment and don't even own a car) "You're in marketing and design, Trill, c'mon, you should know better than anyone that you're not exactly marketable. You're not the product men want." He surmised that if I were dumber or more mean that would help, too, because there are men who have needs to take care of dumb girls or like the abuse from mean girls. But I'm not either of those things. His advice, well intentioned, of course, "friend to friend," is that I find a job I really like and throw myself into that, concentrate on making money because that's all "women like me" can hope for in life - make their own way and find satisfaction from that.
"Women like me" are too nice and too intelligent to date stupid guys or jerks, but we're not pretty or wealthy enough to date men of equal mental caliber. "Guys love to work with 'women like you' but they don't want to date or marry you. You're business associates, that's how they see you. Confident in work, nice people, good source of ideas and creativity, but not datable." He told me that's my niche in life: Work.
Husband, children...nope. Not my niche unless I find some "low class jerk who's too stupid to be intimidated" by the fact I'm smarter than him. But, he cautioned me, I'll be miserable and bored with a guy like that so really, that's not my niche. Better to focus on work. No disappointments for me. And that's his point. "Women like me" need to deal with our reality that we're not young and pretty and that men do not want us. Once we accept that and forget about it and "stop whining about no decent men out there" everyone will be a lot happier.
"There are lots of decent men out here," he said, "we just aren't interested in 'women like you.' You never hear pretty, young intelligent women saying there are no decent men. They always have plenty of decent men to date and marry. That leaves the men who are jerks and losers out there looking, and that's who 'women like you' meet. Then you assume there are no decent men. But in reality you just can't compete with better women." He then told me I owed him an apology because he had his hopes up, he really liked me, invested a lot of time and emotion with me leading up to our first date and I disappointed him.
See? All my fault. No, I didn't ask him to call me and email me. No, I didn't ask our mutual friend to set us up. No. I pretty much did nothing because I was a bit preoccupied with my mother on life support. But. Somehow I let him down, disappointed him because I'm not younger and prettier. (And no, I didn't lie about my age and he's the one who wanted to be set up with me after seeing me in a photo with our mutual friend.) But still, apparently, it's all my fault.
Oh yes. It was quite a phone call. He's a real pal. And a swell guy, too, what with the apology and everything.
And yes. I know he's right. I've heard it all before from other men. So no. I wasn't hurt. A little surprised he'd bother to tell me all this, but not hurt.
And that's all he had to say about that and I agree.
UPDATE: Mortality
I used to fantasize about ways to kill myself which would look like an accident. Now I spend my days thinking of new ways to make my suicide look like an accident at work. If it happens while I'm working my family gets a much larger settlement. So every day I fantasize about the possibilities of death at work. I've hit upon a few possibilities which seem like genius in their simplicity. I'm really looking forward to it. I focus on all the things my family will be able to do with the insurance settlement and that makes me really happy.
UPDATE: Everything happens for a reason
I met a guy through a friend who liked me but then didn't like me because I'm not young and pretty and his advice was that I find fulfillment in my career because that's all I'll ever have. I then get offered a lower paying job which makes me realize I have nothing. My mother's health takes a turn for the worse and I realize life is fleeting and fragile and pointless. I remember I have a nice life insurance policy which pays out in a hefty sum if I'm killed while working. I spend my days at a job I hate devising ways to kill myself at work so it looks like an accident so my family can have more from my death than I ever had in life. And there it is, full circle: Fulfillment from my job because I have nothing else.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
The two words which strike fear in the hearts of all who hear them have been spoken.
Nursing home.
No one said anything about a nursing home to me. It’s all been, “if and when your mother gets strong enough to go home...”
Home. Not The Home. Not nursing home. Just home.
But now, suddenly (at least to me) arrangements are being made to “put” my mother in a nursing home.
Over my dead body.
Right?
No one willingly “puts” their parents in a nursing home, right? I mean except for bad and evil kids who want nothing to do with their parents.Bad and evil kids “put” their parents in nursing homes. They do it with sadistic glee.
That’s always been my assumption.
I know, I know, I know. Sometimes a nursing home is the only option in certain situations.
And apparently my mother’s in one of those situations.
A swutting nursing home? My mother?
A long, long time ago I promised I would never let my parents “end up” in a nursing home.
And yet, without even so much as a “what do you think, Trill?” my mother’s being “put” in a nursing home. One of those smelly, horrible chambers of neglect and decay where death lurks openly in the corridors.
Okay. So. Maybe not all nursing homes are that way.
But still.
They’re not The Ritz, either.
They say it may only be for a short time, a week or two, while she’s still on medication and in need of nursing care.
But one day is one day too many as far as I’m concerned.
But it’s about what’s right for my mother. And they say this is what’s right for her right now.
So I have to concede to the authorities, the health care professionals, the doctors...I have to trust them. Which hasn’t been difficult for me up to this point. I’ve had blind faith in their abilities to save and care for my mother and they’ve done a great job. But this nursing home thing is testing my faith in them.
“Isn’t there some other option, another way, something else?” I begged and pleaded with a doctor over the phone.
“The facility where we’re sending her is very nice, she’ll be very comfortable and have excellent care. It will probably only be for a few weeks,” he said, in that affected calm “now just relax, this shouldn’t hurt” tone of voice.
“Would you put your mother there?” I asked him.
Silence. Sigh. He tried to placate me with, “If my mother were in your mother’s situation I would want her to have the best care possible and I would do whatever I could to get her into the best facility for her. Whispering Oaks is a very good facility, it’s not a typical nursing home. You’ll see, it’s very nice. Very comfortable, very pleasant.”
Whispering Oaks. Why do they always have names like that? And just what are the oaks whispering? “Heh heh, he’s a goner, I give him two, three days, tops.” “No one’s been to visit Sally in eight months. She doesn’t even talk to the nurses anymore. Sits there staring into space all day. I wonder how much longer she’ll hang on?” “As long as she still hopes someone will visit her she’ll hang on. Remember Martha? The one who clung to that birthday card from her granddaughter for over a year hoping the kid would visit her?”
And no, it’s not as if my mother’s going to be neglected. People will visit her. I’ll visit her. But the problem is that there will inevitably be people who are neglected there. My mother’s going to have to spend her days in a “facility” with people who are literally sitting/laying there, alone, waiting to die. It’s the nature of the beast of nursing homes. I don’t care how cheerful the fresh coat of paint and curtains are, it’s a nursing home. And my mother’s being put there. And there’s nothing I can do about it.
Thursday, March 09, 2006 Are You There God? It’s Me Trillian
“So, let me be sure I understand what you’re saying, doctor. The procedure could help her tremendously or it could kill her.”
“Yes, there is a risk of complications and fatality.”
“But your recommendation is to take the risk?”
“Yes. Her current status and prognosis is not very good and this procedure could greatly improve her condition.”
“Or kill her.”
“If there are complications, yes.”
Family meeting.
Never in a million years could I have predicted I would have to vote on a decision which could kill anyone let alone my mother. And yet there I was with my family weighing the pros and cons and registering a vote for surgery which could kill her or render her as good as dead.
Life’s funny that way. One minute you’re sitting in your office contemplating Twizzlers v. pretzels from the vending machine, and the next minute you’re in a neurological department consultation room deciding on whether or not you think a potentially fatal surgery should be performed on your mother.
The pastor was called in, I thought to help guide us to a sound decision, or at least comfort us while we tried to make the right decision, but all he did was pray. Which, I mean, you know, thanks and everything, not that I’m ungrateful, but not exactly helpful in the decision making process. I mean, I could do that, I do know how to pray. What I was hoping for was some sort of “this is what God or Jesus would do” with some parable back-up information. Counseling. Help. Guidance. Assurance. Something. Anything. There we were in our hour of need, and what did we get for my parents’ years of devotion, service, fellowship and money at their church? A prayer. A short, simple, “O Heavenly Father, keep (Trillian’s mum) in your care, be with the doctors and her family, bless (Trillian’s mum) with your everlasting comfort and love, amen.” Seriously.Um. Okay. You know, I’m no man of the cloth, but, I already pretty much thought the exact thing several days prior. I think anyone would have. Is that it? The sum total of religion? When it comes down to life and death there’s a one sentence prayer that’s supposed to help and guide you to the right decisions?
And yes. There’s a point where even the most agnostic person in the room (in this case, me) realizes there’s nothing left but to trust and hope. First, trust in the doctors and specialists and hope they are at their peak performance and that the patient is strong enough to make it through the surgery. And then, yes, there’s nothing you can do but turn it over to the specialists and think, “Okay, well, I guess, you know, this is one of the times that it’s probably okay and even appropriate to test the God waters and hand up a prayer. I mean, it couldn’t hurt, and even though I’m not a regular pray-er, or even much of a believer, the person going through the ordeal is religious so it’s probably okay and even appropriate to pray to their God for their well being.”
Other members of my family have more religious faith than I do. They left the consultation room and went to the hospital chapel. I’ve been there a few times over the past months. (months, sheesh, it’s been two months) And no, nothing went up in flames, no lightening came down and struck anything (or me). Basically nothing happened. One of the nurses told me about the chapel when my mother went into her second Code Blue. “Why don’t you go to the chapel? It’s quiet and calm in there, a lot more peaceful than the waiting room.” It seemed like a sound, albeit potentially blasphemous or at least hypocritical idea. I timidly entered the chapel, which was empty, and took a look around. There were several pamphlets and prayer cards for various faiths. Business cards for local churches and church leaders. It’s a one chapel fits all place. A big Western European Jesus painting with a spotlight, an altar, and a book shelf with various religious texts. Oh. And an ornately carved Hindu sculpture. I tried, you know, I really tried to find some sort of spiritual, I dunno, something. Some spiritual something. Whatever it is other people find in religion. At that point, yes, I was honestly trying and hoping there’s a God and hoping (like Hell, har har) that He, She or It was not ready for my mother and would not let her die.
I prayed, the whole humble thing, “Hi, it’s me. Nice little chapel you’ve got here. Look, we both know I have a lot of unanswered questions and a lot of not so great experiences in my past, if you’re out there and you listen to people like me, could you please help my mother? She believes in you, she’s got a lot of faith and she’s a super nice person and a really good mother so can you please stop the suffering and help her recover from all of this? Because, well, because a lot of earthly mortal coil reasons, but mainly you know my dad? Yeah. He’s not doing so well with all of this and he really needs my mother to recover. But I guess you probably know that already. Actually, I guess if you’re the God they say you are, there’s nothing you don’t already know so I suppose there’s really no point in me trying to explain any of this. You supposedly have a plan for all of us so you already know how this is going to turn out so me praying for my mother is really kind of pointless, too. Which, as you would already know, is one of my issues with religion. If you have this big master plan all worked out for each of us, what’s the point in praying for something which may be the opposite of your plan? Isn’t is actually selfish and sacreligious to pray for something which may not be in accordance with your plan? If I sit here praying for my mother to recover, but your plan is for her to die, am I not being selfish and, well, bad by praying for something which goes against your plan? The problem is that I don’t know your plan. You don’t tell us anything about this big plan of yours. The closest we get to finding out is after a failure when the conventional solace is, ‘It just wasn’t meant to be.’ And as you would know, I’ve had a lot of those consolation lines thrown at me in my lifetime, so actually, if anyone’s close to knowing about God’s plan it’s me. I don’t know what it is, but I know a lot of what it is not. Anyway, you know all of this. I’ve gone over this with you many times in the past. So, yeah. Please look after my mother. Thanks.”
The nurse was right, though, the chapel is a much more peaceful and calm place than the waiting room. So when things have been particularly tense I’ve retreated to the chapel instead of the waiting room. Every time I go in there I am humbled and open and truly hoping for something, some new awareness, some enlightenment, something. but so far: Nothing. I keep praying for my mother, she’s still alive, but she keeps having set backs and traumas which is pretty much the exact opposite of what I’ve prayed for her. What’d she ever do to deserve any of this? Nothing. Nothing at all.
So much for an epiphany.
So much for finding solace. Reconciliation. Comfort. Anything. I’m open to it, you know, really, especially lately. Sitting in an ICU room for weeks, when you’re not the one who’s sick, really puts things in perspective. People die. Most of the time people die when it’s least expected. Life is fleeting. I’ve seen countless gurneys headed to the morgue. My mother has stopped breathing several times. This is it, you know, the real stuff, the heavy stuff, the meaning of life stuff. I want something spiritual to awaken or be reborn or somehow be found, I’m sitting there trying to find it, reaching out for help and, as ever: Nothing.
Not a swutting thing.
So off some of my family trotted to the chapel. I couldn’t make myself go with them. It’s weird. I’ve been going there for some weeks now seeking a calm and quiet place, and yet now, in the real defining moment of my mother’s ordeal, it was the last place I wanted to be. Probably because I would feel hypocritical and weird in there with my much more faithful and pious family members. It’s easier to be blasphemous and hypocritical and confrontational about God when no one else is around. And I’ve never really been much of a group religious experience person. My religion or lack thereof is a personal experience.
And so it was that I found myself in the coffee shop staring blankly at the zillion types of coffee menu that I realized: I resent my family because of their ability to have faith. Their ability to find comfort in that faith. These are people who are, pretty much, like me. My parents raised me for crying out loud, taught me stuff, showed me the way, and yet we differ so greatly on this fundamental issue. Why aren’t I like them? Why can’t I find the spiritual enlightenment they have? Why do I find the pastor’s one sentence prayer so inadequate and unhelpful while they find comfort and wisdom in it? I think I’m trying, I feel like I’m trying, I have made sincere and humble efforts, and yet: Nothing but a lot of questions.
Anyway, yadda yadda yadda.
That one sentence prayer apparently worked because my mother came through the surgery really well and she’s doing a lot better. There’s healing now, for the first time since this all began, there are signs of healing. When she’s awake the fear and paranoia is mostly gone, and she’s even sat in a chair a few times. She made a joke to a doctor the other day, and she asks me to fill in blanks she has regarding what’s happened to her over the past two months.
So I’m all thankful to the doctors and nurses, and especially the surgeon. But certain members of my family are giving all the credit to God and saying how great and helpful the pastor was. And while I am hopeful that maybe, finally, God did step in and do something about my mother’s situation, the fact is that it was a few mere mortal surgeons and specialists who actually came up with the idea and did the work. Some would say God’s working through them, and you know, maybe that’s true. I’m certainly not the person to make any sort of comment about that. But. Still.
A rather unspecific one sentence prayer from a pastor is all it took to save my mother? Somehow I don’t think so.
Nor did I find any comfort in that prayer regarding the difficult decision. Which makes me think I am a complete and total atheist after all. That it’s not questions and confusion, but outright doubt and cynical disbelief that’s keeping me from embracing religion and having that faith and spirituality other people have and get from religion.
That scares me.
Because, you know, as much as I question and raise an eyebrow at certain, um, aspects of religion, particularly organized churches, I generally think, “Well, okay, sure, what do I know about any of this? Oh yeah, nothing. Maybe there is some supreme being. That would be kind of cool. And for the most part my personal outlook and philosophy goes along with the principles laid out in many religions. So, hey, be open to it, be a good person, try to get along with other people, don’t hurt anyone, be polite, raise your hand and ask questions, respect people, cultures, ideas and religions, learn as much as you can and accept whatever happens or doesn’t happen with grace and hope for the best.”
But now I wonder if that’s just a total cop out, my way of justifying a complete lack of faith.
I am thrilled that my mother is doing better. I don’t mean to downplay that. And ultimately that’s the only thing that matters.
What concerns me is that I don’t really care how she got better. Surgeons, God, whomever, whatever, I don’t care. She’s alive and she’s starting to improve. She’s not suffering like she was. That's my only care or concern.
I thanked the surgeon and the doctors. Profusely. Repeatedly.
And then I went to the chapel and thanked God. You know, because everyone said He did it, it was all Him, so I thought, “Okay, I should go thank him.”
I didn’t expect anything, and I got nothing. I didn’t feel better or worse, I didn’t feel like I did the right thing or that I did the wrong thing. I felt: Nothing.
So. Now I’m all wondering and a little worried that I am a soulless, faithless, hopeless lump of flesh. Don’t get me wrong, I’m okay with that concept, I pretty much feel that way about myself most of the time anyway.
But that little, “Hey, do the right thing, be a good person, be open to the idea of religion and God” synapse isn’t firing like it usually does.
I feel nothing. And yes, for me, that is good. I’ve been trying to feel nothing for several months. But what’s a little disconcerting is that I seem to be losing my conscience. I think I might have lost a big portion of it in that hospital chapel.
As much as I don’t want to feel anything, as much as I want to void emotions from my life, I really do not want to lose my conscience. I’m not out to be a bad person, I just don’t want to feel anything.
But. Maybe. That, like my heretofore agnosticism, is a cop out. It’s an all or nothing situation.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Okay. So I had to leave my mother laying in intensive care so I could go to work on a “critical” project at work. “People” told me I should take a break anyway. “You need a break, Trill, go on, if anything happens you can come right back,” “they” said. “You have to take care of yourself. Go do your normal routine. It’ll help you feel more in control,” “they” said.
I didn’t feel like performing my normal routine. I wanted to stay with my mother. But I’m trying to be better about listening to the advice of other people. I’ve tried everything else, I’ve made a complete mockery and shambles of my life by being true to myself so I’ve been trying to take everyone else’s advice. Since everyone else has a lot of advice for me. Everyone else is really good at sorting out my problems. Which is, you know, nice of them. Helpful and all that. But a lot of times their solutions don’t seem right for me.
And their solutions usually cost a lot of money. A lot of people seem to be of the throw some money at the problem school of problem solving. And it does seem to work for a lot of people. Apartment or house too small and crowded? Move to a bigger nicer one! Car not running properly? Buy a new one! Not feeling well? See your doctor and get expensive tests and medicine insurance doesn’t cover! Stressed at work? Take a long vacation far away, really get away from it all! Can’t find the right guy/girl? Who needs a man/woman? Buy a house/car/wardrobe instead! Fill the voids with things and spend, spend, spend! Go on a pricey vacation and when you least expect it you’ll find the right guy/girl AND you’ll have a new house/car/wardrobe and tales of adventure which will entice and impress them!
See? Money really does solve problems!
Shame I don’t have money.
Because if I did have money I wouldn’t be tethered to a job I hate, stuck in a situation I can barely tolerate on a “normal” day when I want and need to be with my mother.
But. Taking that advice I’ve been given, I’ve been trying to catch myself up in my “normal” routine. Which isn’t easy. Because I’ve got a ton of work to do on a crazy deadline. Which is good in some ways because it does make me try to focus on something other than my mother. It does make me try to keep things in perspective.
Unfortunately that perspective is usually, “This is all a meaningless and stupid waste of time. None of this really matters. My mother’s existence is dependent on a bunch of machines and tubes and doctors and nurses, she’s in and out of consciousness, and I’m sitting here trying to come up with an eye catching and clever design for a client who is already bringing in enough money to buy Eastern Europe to use for their management team building retreat weeks.”
I feel horrible.
Yes.
I feel horrible. Okay? Yes. I feel something. A lot of things, actually. Most of them unpleasant.
I want my mother.
It hurts, physically, I ache for her and now I can’t even look over to her bedside or hold her hand.
All I can do is see the last image I saw of her burned in my retina. Her laying there in intensive care, a tiny, frail form buried under mounds of tubes and wires and machines and drip bags and the omnipresent and ever present vital stat monitor.
I turn up the volume on the iPod to try to lose myself in rock and roll. Because, you know, rock and roll save lives, or at least makes lonely/sad/pathetic lives livable until the next song. I’ve always assumed when I can no longer be lulled by music I’ll know it’s time to really hang up this life thing for good. Well. Yeah. So. The thing is, now, here, away from my mother, I’m trying to drown myself in music, forget about life for a while and all that, and it’s not working. Not even my beloved Pixies can hold my attention for longer than a couple of songs. My usual Sing Along with Kim and Do a Not So Bad Impression on Gigantic fun fest is more like a weird and half-assed American Idol audition. I have to leave it before the end of the song because instead of being mindless, mind numbing fun it’s just annoying and irritating. Chrissie Hynde? Ditto. A couple of weeks ago I found a lot of solace in a reawakened love of Nirvana. Everything old seemed new again. Kurt helped me cope with my mother’s situation. (Thanks Kurt, wherever you are, I owe you another one) But now Kurt’s voice just makes me sad and a little angry. “Stupid Kurt. Just like every other man in my life you left me.” Yes. It’s that bad. Weird. Delusional. Different.
Right. So. Losing myself in work: Not working. Losing myself in music: Not working.
Even the thought of shoe shopping has lost it’s luster. I’m broke anyway so it’s a nonstarter.
I needed a haircut. So I got one. I thought maybe a fresh cut and style might give me a few hours of rebirth, or at least a jolt of new haircut energy. You know, that new haircut smell, that new haircut outlook. But it didn’t. I have no idea if I like it or not. I haven’t bothered to care about whether or not I like it. Other people tell me they like it. Although this morning someone said they never noticed how much I look like John Mellencamp, something about the new haircut, they guessed. Do I care that I might look like John Mellencamp? No. Should I? I suppose. But not really. What difference does it make? I’ve got no one to impress, no one cares what (or who) I look like. It doesn’t matter to me or anyone else. My mother’s fighting for life in intensive care. My hair is of no consequence to her, me, or anyone else.
I did need a haircut, but what kicked me into doing it was a comment the day I arrived back in the office. One of the IT geeks was working in our department, rerouting something or something. I dunno. Some IT made up job thing. “IT Dork: "You look like some sort of superhero today."
Me: "I'm not wearing tights or a cape or big gold bracelets, am I? I meant to leave those at home."
IT Dork: "Mmm, I guess it's more of a Xena thing."
Me: "I look like Xena?!"
IT Dork: "More than you usually do."
Ummm. Yeah. Okay. “More than I usually do.” I’m going to leave that one alone. I don’t think I “usually” look like Xena apart from the fact that I’m tall, brunette and large breasted. Huh. Yeah. I guess by that description I do look like Xena. Swut. Anyway, Xena is not a look I want to cultivate, actively or passively. So I thought, “okay, ya know, Trill, you really need a haircut anyway, let’s take steps to change your apparently “more” Xena looking look back to something more usual, which is apparently less Xena than you are now.”
So yes. For a few minutes there I cared about what I looked like, mainly because I do not want to be the object of IT Dork’s Xena-rific fantasies. I think I’m probably pretty safe with this new apparently John Mellencamp hair.
But you know. Whatever.
None of it matters.
I want my mother.
She’d laugh about the Xena thing. I wish I could tell her. I wish I could ring her and tell her and she’d laugh and say something funny and convince me that I do not look like Xena but even if I were to look like Xena it’s not without interesting possibilities.
But I can’t ring her or talk to her because she’s in intensive care and in and out of consciousness and having difficulty speaking when she is conscious so, yeah. My hair and more than usual Xena-esque appearance is of no consequence whatsoever.
“People” told me routine would be good for me. Make me feel normal.
Ha.
Feel normal.
Let's muse about normal, shall we? What is normal? I’ve been trying to remember if I’ve ever felt normal. There was a while, a few years in college, when I thought I was a normal person put in abnormal situations and that’s why I didn’t feel normal but that I was in fact normal. Then I settled on the concept that normal is all relative and that my normal is not normal for other people so I can’t compare my normal to their normal. I learned the best way to cope was to take that attitude. It helps sometimes. The closest I’ve felt to normal since then was with HWNMNBS. I know. Be quiet. I’m just saying. I felt kind of normal then. I felt accepted and okay, at least, which were huge steps closer to feeling more normal than usual. Joke was on me when he dumped me because he couldn’t accept me and I was far from okay with him. So I suppose those times of feeling more normal don’t count because I was actually delusional, not normal.
So I guess then, that I only feel normal when I’m able to classify my normal as not everyone else’s normal. Status quo is more an appropriate term for me than normal. Normal’s relative. Status guo is just that.
So I’m trying to be all status quo. Work. Cat. Laundry. Hair cut. Routine.
It’s just that I have such a difficult time caring about my routine life when things are my version of normal that now, when things are definitely not normal, even for my relatively skewed version of normal, I absolutely cannot summon a second of care for anything in my life. I’m trying to take that advice, the whole take a break, go home for a while, manage your life thing, but what do I have to come home to when I take that break? A job I hate, IT geeks making Xena comments, a couple more engagement rings flashing around the office, volunteer groups telling me they don’t need my time anyway, they’d prefer a check because, “har har, I should know better than anyone they need money,” a haircut I don’t care about, laundry, a stack of bills I don’t have enough money to pay, a lease renewal notice with rent increase, taxes to be paid on an income which barely covers the current rent, and a cat.
The lone purpose I can find is my cat. Which is cool. He’s cool. I missed him. He does comfort me, that lump of purring fluff. But. Not to short change him and his coolness, the fact is that the only purpose and point to my “normal” routine and life is a cat.
My compartment’s really small and warm. But it’s amazing how big and cold it seems at 2:00 in the morning when I’m staring wide awake with the image of my mother burned into my retina.
Yeah, getting back into the ol’ routine has been great!
What’s my normal now? Jumping and having my heart skip a few beats every time the phone rings. Answering with trepidation and fear that “something” has happened, mind racing ahead to flight schedules, car rentals, cat food, all things “GET HERE NOW!” before I even say hello. Not making any plans for more than one day in advance and even then making sure it’s understood I may not be able to make it if I have to leave at a second’s notice which is very possible. Living under a state of general emergency, with appropriate contingencies in place: A bag packed and ready to grab and go both at home and at work; cat sitters on alert, several week’s worth of cat food stocked; racing through regular chores with rapid speed, and always with mobile phone on and firmly in hand at the ready to answer; feeling enormously relieved to have the laundry, grocery shopping, walk home completed, feeling like, “whew, okay, got that done, got through that without an emergency call.”
I thought, “maybe this is one of those times I honestly could use a drink or two.” Turns out it’s not. Halfway through one drink it occurred to me if I got drunk I might not respond fast enough to an emergency, or worse, get confused in my drunken stupor and end up getting details wrong and then having to explain I got it all wrong because I was drinking and then people would think I have a drinking problem and that would embarrass and shame my parents, not that my mother would know at that point, but still, not exactly the sort of thing I want hanging over their heads if “something” happens. “Such good people. Well. Except for their youngest girl. Can’t get and keep a man, no children, no home, she rents you know, no children, not even a car, no wonder, now we know it’s been a (whisper) drinking problem (unwhisper) all along. Such a shame, I heard she was absolutely smashed when they called to tell her. Really, it’s just pathetic. Good parents, nice home, good Christian upbringing, all that college, the best schools, she had everything, and what does she do? Drink her life away, and on her mother’s sick bed, no less. It’s just disrespectful.”
Maybe you’re not from a small town so maybe you’re not familiar with that sort of discussion. There’s always a discussion like that about someone involved with a tragedy in a small town. I think it’s necessary. It deflects the pain of someone suffering or dying onto something more manageable like shaming and tut tutting someone who’s alive. Gossip and rumors. That’s one of the reasons why I bear the expense of living in a large city. Anonymity. Sure, it’s expensive here, but no one cares enough about me to gossip about me except at work. I can lead my pathetic and increasingly solitary little life in privacy and without the nagging rumors and speculation fueling my growing angst with my life. Being single is difficult. Being single in a small town is suicidal.
Yep. The ol’ routine. Normal.
I ventured into my dating email box, got scared and left. Suffice it to say Mr. Right/Wonderful/Not a Serial Killer was not waiting for me there. Which is good because if there had been anyone interesting in there the email would read something like this, “Hi, thanks for your interest in me. You seem real swell. Maybe we can talk sometime. But not right now because I can’t tie up my phones because my mother’s in intensive care and I had to leave her because of a job I can’t stand where they don’t understand my situation so while I’m here dealing with some stuff at work I have to keep my phone lines clear in case someone tries to reach me in case there’s an emergency. So maybe when she gets better we can talk. If she doesn’t get better I probably won’t really feel like talking for a while, so in either case you might want to just forget about this whole thing even though you’re interested in me and you seem like a swell guy. Bad timing and all that. As you can see I’m kind of a mess and probably not the sort of person you thought I was based on my profile. Sorry ‘bout that. Bad timing. Anyway, thanks, and maybe if my mother gets better we can talk.” Yeah. Not exactly the sort of email a guy wants to receive from a woman he’s never met. So it’s good, actually the one good thing in my normal life, is that this aspect of my life is as pathetic and woeful as ever.
The abnormal part of my normal that’s really getting to me is that there’s no way to deal with or talk about any portion of my life without factoring in my mother’s “situation.”
Not that I mind, not that I feel put upon because of my mother. I don’t. I feel put upon by the rest of my life. A life about which I have little regard anyway. I don’t care about any factor of my life except my cat. And yet this life about which I have no regard is interfering with the one thing I do care about, my family.
Monday, February 13, 2006
So my mother's really sick and now she's delirious and delusional. She can't speak but over the past few days she's been able to write. Which is great, you know, she can communicate.
Except that she's on some major dope and the things she's writing are drug induced paranoid and depressed messages of confusion, fear and despair.
I know my mother's in there somewhere. Every now and then I catch a hint of her in her eyes. I'm sure I saw her flash me a knowing smirk when a new nurse named Barbie came in and introduced herself as, well, Barbie. (I know, not Babs, not Barb, not Barbara, but Barbie. Whatever lady, it's your life.) Another day she wrote me a note to remember my cousin's birthday next week. One night I showed her a dress in a magazine and she pointed to the neckline, a cut she's usually fond of wearing. She wrote "$$$? or ¢¢¢?" on her notepad.
Those are the few good moments.
The rest of the time her eyes are dull and vacant or alert but fearful. She sees things that aren't actually there. She hears things when all is silent. She thinks frightening and disturbing thoughts. Basically, she's on a really bad acid trip.
The doctors say this is normal. They tell us we should be grateful she's even conscious. They tell us if she gets better and back to normal and she won't remember anything about this. I trust them. I think/hope they're right. It's that if that concerns me.
Because if she doesn't get better she's going to live out her mortal days in fear and depression, captive in a hospital tethered to machines which pump stuff in and suck stuff out of her. I realize no one wants this to happen to someone they love. I realize a lot of people spend their final days like this. And that stinks. I don't know about all those other people, but I know my mother is not a paranoid, fearful and depressed person. I know she doesn't normally think the things she's thinking. I know she does not hallucinate. I know she doesn't hear things, voices, sounds, that aren't there. I know none of this is her, it's the drugs.
But. That's the point. She's not in her right mind. In fact she's barely in her mind at all. She drifts in and out of consciousness. I wish I knew where she goes when she's not conscious. I hope when she's unconscious she's escaping to her right mind. But I don't know. No one knows. Based on her fluctuating blood pressure I assume it's not always a pleasant place for her.
So yeah.
Fun times. Good times.
Times which make me think: This is all one huge waste of time. Spend your life being a good person, a nice, kind, tirelessly giving, thoughtful, caring, funny, sincere person and what happens? Drug induced fear, paranoia and depression.
Gee. Some great reward that is. Makes me want to run right out and be a better person.
I know, I know, there's no dignity or justice in sickness and death. The great equalizers and all that. I get it. And no, I don't think my mother's any more special than anyone else's mother. (Well. Actually. She is better than a lot of mothers.)
I knew my parents would die some day, and since last year I've felt relieved and lucky to still have my mother around at all. But that's part of the sick joke. "Ah, well, Trillian, you can have your mother for a few more months, just long enough to lull you into a false sense of security..." and then blam! "Bwa ha ha. Psych! Even funnier joke on you! And now we're going to add the fun of mental anguishing your mother! You of all people, Trillian, know better than to get too comfortable. It's not about you, it's about taking away the few people you actually like and love and doing so in cruel and unusual ways. Bwa ha ha."
My mother hates this. I know she does. Who wouldn't? The issue of the if for all of us, is whether or not she hates it enough to just let go and leave us.
I'm not ready for her to die. I know. I know. It's not about me. It's not. But. I have a bazillion things I need to do with her. We all know my life is an unmitigated disaster. My mother's the only one who can sort me out or at least make me not feel so bad about the disastrous mess I've made of my life. That unconditional love and understanding thing good mothers are so good at dispensing and all that. She's always been really understanding about the failures. I'd really like for her to see me succeed at something. I know she always worries about me. She doesn't say it but I know she's worried that I'm not married. I know it upsets her that I'm alone. I know she thinks I'm missing out on the motherhood thing. She doesn't nag or even talk about it because she's a good mother and doesn't want to make me feel worse about all that. She knows these are not choices I've actively pursued. She knows I wanted something very different, too. But. You know. It hasn't worked out that way for me. The one thing that has kept me going, albeit perhaps not the best reason, was that I wanted to succeed at something, a career, a marriage, something big and important, so that my mother wouldn't worry about me so much. I wanted her to finally enjoy a success instead of dealing with another failure. I didn't want her to go to her grave worrying about me. I know, I know, that's what mother's do, or at least the good ones, anyway. But you know. It's my mother. And it's me. And let's face it: Being my mother is not exactly easy. I'd like to give her a break on the worry thing at least once.
I don't think she's ready to die. It certainly wasn't on her agenda for this year. I know that because at Christmas she sat down with her new calendar and wrote in everything going on this year, all the events she would attend and all the cards she would send. She had plans. She bought cards. And two rolls of stamps at the new rate. People who are ready to die do not buy two rolls of stamps at the new rate several weeks before the rate takes effect. People who are ready to die do not care about postal rate increases.
But then there she is: Suspiciously eyeing one of the nurses. Blinking her eyes and wincing at something only she sees and hears. Paranoia, hallucinations and depression certainly weren't on her agenda, either. I would have noticed those on her calendar. I would have told her in that case let's not worry about getting stamps at the new rate.
Nope. All I saw were birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, grandkids' school events, some church stuff, a couple of trips, a few doctor appointments, the oil change dates...nothing about whatever it is that's happening to her now.
You can't plan life, I know. She knows that, too. But I'm hanging onto the hope that she's not accepting this change of plan. When she's lucid she seems, you know, okay. Ish. Considering.
I use these fleeting moments of semi-clarity to quickly try to explain to her what I learned from the doctors, hoping that if she understands everything that's happening she'll feel more in control when she's not exactly in control of herself. So far that theory's not really standing up to clinical testing. So I've been adding more stuff like dresses in magazines and gossip from the church ladies and putting the "good" lotion from home on the few bits of her hands which are not covered in IVs and "good" lip balm (also from home) on her lips. I have to make sure she sees me hide these in the closet when I'm finished, though, because even in her most lucid moments she fears someone will "borrow" her good lotion and balm and not return them. I have to admit, that's not paranoia but rational precaution. The personal grooming products in hospitals are seriously lacking, um, well, quality. Not that anyone expects spa products, but still. You'd think they'd give patients hand lotion which actually soothes and moisturizes, or hypoallergenic soap which doesn't dry skin to a chaffed leather state, or lip balm which soothes lips, not turn them into dry sponges. I'm just trying to make her feel as normal as possible.
When I was young and interested in biology I toyed with the idea of a career in medicine. Research, DNA, that sort of thing. My mother, as usual, encouraged me to pursue it, check it out, see if it fit. My mother's always saying that about everything. "Try it on, see if it fits you."
Obviously a career in medicine didn't fit me. I'd gotten out of actual dissections with conscientious compassionate objection notes and subsequent lengthy reports written from text books explaining more than I ever would have learned in those dissection lessons.
But then in another biology class I was told the time had come for me to decide if I was going to face the fact that biology is not always pretty and always involves dead things which were once alive or run like a sissy girl to my mother because I didn't want to cut open a dead animal.
I ran like a sissy girl to my mother.
I was in college. Living a long way away from my mother. It was not exactly a proud moment for anyone involved. My mother didn't care that I'd wasted a lot of money on a college course in biology because I couldn't stomach dissecting a cat which was already dead. My mother understood. She told me to try to drop that course and add that photography lab I enjoyed so much. "Formaldehyde, stop bath, you can still get your hands dirty and breathe in toxic fumes," she said. My mother knows a lot about a lot and she's really practical. I was always glad she didn't get mad at me for dropping that class and wasting the money on what I always knew deep down I couldn't do.
Now I'm regretting being such a sissy girl and running to my mother. If I'd toughed it out I would have gone into genetic research. I would have learned about DNA. I would have tried to find ways to prevent icky diseases. I would have been able to help my mother. But I didn't. Because I'm a sissy girl who runs to my mother. And she has to get through this because I haven't quite got the hang of life and I still need to run like a sissy girl to my mother. Yes. I'm scared and paranoid and confused and depressed.
Like mother, like daughter.
Except my mother has a good excuse. Her emotional issues are drug induced. I'm just completely inept.
Which is probably the core of her concerns about me. So I spend the time I have when she's resting trying to formulate some sort of plan for being more adept. Or at least less inept. Give her something to ease her mind about me. So far I'm not coming up with much. That career in medicine is not exactly appealing right now. Oh sure, there are some cool gadgets and now more than ever DNA is cool and funding is high, but, um, well, you know. Med school. It takes a lot of time and money. Oh. And. Brains. And animal dissections. And yeah. No. I don't think that's the way forward for me. I( tried it on and it didn't fit. I could marry a doctor. Actually, no, I probably couldn't. Doctors always marry really cute nurses or at least really cute girls. And do I really want to face a guy every day knowing I married him because I couldn't be a doctor myself and figured this was the closest I was going to get to a career in medicine? Oh sure, the medical journals and academic conferences would be fun, but do I want a husband or a subscription to the New England Journal of Medicine?
And there we go. Right straight back to the paranoia, fear, confusion and depression. I can't even figure out a plan for being less inept much less actually be less inept.
Meanwhile, my mother's not getting any younger and the drugs aren't getting any weaker. And I'm still a failure causing her concern and worry.
Oh sure, it's possible my ineptitude is keeping her going. "I can't die, my inept daughter can't even figure out how to be less inept. Where did I go wrong? Surely by now she should have succeeded at something. But no. She can't even find a man to marry her. What's she going to do? What will become of her? I can't die, who's that sissy baby going to run to when I'm gone? I created that monster and I need to stick around and deal with it." In which case my ineptitude is actually aptitude at keeping my mother alive. But I'm not that clever. Totally accidental if that's what's going on inside her head.
This is why they tell you to take breaks from the bedside of a sick loved one.
Monday, February 06, 2006
ordeal
Main Entry: or·deal
Pronunciation: or-'dE(-&)l, 'or-"
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English ordal, from Old English ordAl; akin to Old
High German urteil judgment, Old English dAl division
1 : a primitive means used to determine guilt or innocence by submitting the
accused to dangerous or painful tests believed to be under supernatural
control ordeal by fire
2 : a severe trial or experience
My mother's going through an ordeal. I was trying to find a word for what she's enduring. It needed to be a word conveying vast magnitude and injustice and pain. I couldn't come up with anything to adequately describe what's happening to her. I was trying to explain the most recent procedure to someone when I said, "It's quite an ordeal." And I thought, "no really, it's an actual bona fide ordeal. Forget everything you thought you knew about ordeals because this is the definition of an ordeal."
She's getting great care and all of that. But it's my mother. Human suffering is bad enough, you know, in general, but when it's your mother it's like nothing you can imagine experiencing. You don't know her, but you'd like her. Everyone does. She makes friends and melts hearts everywhere she goes. She is the kindest, funniest, smartest, classiest person I've ever known and other people feel the same way. People look at her with awe and respect.
Watching her going through a painful and difficult health situation confirms my shaky opinion of this "God" everyone's always going on about.
It stinks a lot. It stinks like stink's stink. No one should have to go what she's going through. It's cruel. It's cruel to her, it's cruel to my father, it's cruel to me.
We all know our parents are going to die at some point. Losing parents is the course and curse of life. Circle of life, and all that. But having to see them ravaged and tormented and indignified in every possible way is cruel and unusual punishment to people whose only offense was to be born to great parents. Bambi and all that.
My father's not taking any of this well. No one could expect him to take it well. No one expects anything from him. Except, well, I mean no one expects him to get in the way of my mother's care.
But he is. Not intentionally. But he's scared and frustrated and helpless. And as a result he's lashing out at her health care providers. He thinks the doctors don't know anything and the nurses don't care about my mother. I'm sitting right there next to him and my mother. I hear and see the same things he does. And yet I feel my mother is getting excellent care. I feel her doctors are doing everything they possibly can for her. I see the nurses gently administering the never ending treatments and medications. I hear them giving her positive encouragement. I see them tirelessly put in 12 hour shifts.
Why the huge difference of opinion between us?
My parents have worked out a system of dealing with life. They've sorted out their individual strengths and weaknesses and they divvy up life's challenges based on their strengths. My dad covers math, knot tying merit badges and auto maintanance. Health and emotional reality have always been my mother's turf. When my dad gets angry my mother sorts out the cause, applies her gentle reasoning persuasions and makes him understand he's not angry at me for my latest life disaster, but that he's actually worried and sad that I'm once again failing miserably. She sorts out his feelings for him and they proceed on an emotionally adjusted course of action.
And she's not able to sort him out right now and so he's unable to proceed on an emotionally adjusted course of action.
Just as well I'm a relationship failure because I can see the torture he's going through with this. At least by being a lone loser I won't have to watch my partner suffer. There we go, turning that negative into a positive! Sure, I'll spend my life alone but think of all the emotional suffering I'll be spared. Atta girl. Turn that frown upside down. Spin it and smile like you mean it.
But I've got an immediate issue with my parents. My father's been reprimanded by the hospital staff. Counselors have been sent to help him but they're not making any progress. The situation's getting worse, not better. So the chief of staff has prevailed upon "us" to remove my father from the hospital.
The "us" I'm talking about includes three grown children. Two of whom are conspicuously absent from their mother's side but eager to dispense advice from afar.
They've got families and responsibilities. I understand. I really do. They're doing the best they can, they'd do more if they could. And besides, I have no spouse or children, no real responsibilities, so of course I'm the one who should be there. My sister. She's great at pointing out the obvious failures in my life at the most inappropriate times. Then again, is there ever an appropriate time to point out obvious life failures? No. So why not wait for stressful family situation to bring up a family member's short comings and failures in life?
I'm a single child-free loser who has no responsibilities so I'm the one at my mother's bedside. And a vote was taken among the siblings, spouses and children and I was the one who won the privilege of telling my father he's effectively been kicked out of the hospital "for his own good and the health and well being of my mother."
Yeah.
Um.
Right.
Can I get a little help here? Someone? Anyone?
This is a what I've come up with so far. It stinks. I stink. No wonder I'm a loser with no spouse or children. I suck at the big stuff like reprimanding my father for loving my mother "too much."
Hi Dad.
Remember when you and Mum taught me about words and how to read and write and what a wonderful thing communication is?
Well, um, yeah. See. Here's the thing. I know, I know, you taught me better than to talk like that. Sorry. It's sloppy and makes me look and sound stupid. I know. Sorry. You taught me how to communicate by proper use of language and I should be grateful and respectful enough to use the tools you gave me. But yeah. About communication.
You may have lived long enough to regret that.
I don't think you're going to like some of the words I need to communicate to you.
It's about Mum.
I know you love her. Everyone knows you love her. There's never been a second of doubt about your feelings for her. We all know you asked her to marry her the night you met her and though she needed persuading you got the girl no one else could get near. Obviously your feelings were and are sincere.
I know you want to protect her. I know you don't want her to suffer. I know seeing her like this is killing you with a slow drip of emotional torture. Which is painful for the rest of us. We know how you feel. We feel it, too. And we see and feel what this is doing to you and that hurts and concerns us, too.
But here's the thing: Mum senses your anxiety and the tension you create among hospital staff. Your old school Marine training of showing no emotion but anger is causing a lot of negativity. Most of us realize what looks like anger is actually fear, concern, frustration, confusion and love. But. Lashing out at nurses and doctors helps no one. And until you can smile like you mean it at the hospital you're not allowed near Mum.
I'm sorry, Dad, really, I am so sorry to have to say this to you. Never in my wildest Bill Murray dreams could I have imagined it would come to this. It's awkward and weird and, well, I mean Dad, you're Dad.You discipline me. Remember when you incessantly quizzed me for school entry exams? No, not math, which by the way I have yet to use in real life, but in those word definition simile things. Father is to daughter as punishment is to perpetrator.
It's not supposed to be this way, it's not the natural order of things. But apparently you don't realize what you're doing. You're creating a tense vibe and general anger and negativity that's prevailing in the intensive care ward.
So for some bizarre and as yet unexplained reason, the burden of disciplining you, baring the bad news, is falling on my shoulders. I thought this sort of thing was squarely in eldest son territory. Or even eldest and most favored daughter territory. I have no idea why I, the youngest of the children, the baby of all people, the swutting black sheep, should have to be the one to do this. You want to talk about confusion and resentment and frustration and yes, a little anger? Yeah, well, let me tell you a few things about your oldest children. They're wusses and cowards who boss me around and convince me I'm best suited for this conversation. What they mean is that they're not touching this with a ten foot pole but it needs to be said and done and they feel I have the least to lose and they know I'll actually say it whereas they might back out at the first sign of danger. Somehow, somewhere, some way I became the responsible one of your children. I know. That scares me, too. A lot. They've reproduced and are raising children and yet I'm the responsible one. I don't get it either. Maybe some time when things are more calm you can try to explain that to me.
Because you're really good at explaining things to me. You taught me how to be resourceful and respectful and to seek knowledge instead of sitting there powerless. You could have just told me how to spell words but instead you showed me how to use a dictionary. When I went through that geology phase you could have guided me toward a more useful interest like cheerleading, but no, you indulged me and bought me a rock tumbler and encouraged me to learn all I could about, well, rocks. You taught me to seek knowledge, Dad. "Leave no stone unturned or untumbled, har har," you said. When I was curious about pre-war German abstract expressionism you and Mum took me to museums and helped me find books and even sent me to college to learn more about it.
I know you didn't expect to have such a dork for a daughter, I know you were cool and popular and not socially awkward so, yes, I'm aware I was a challenge for you to raise. Or at least not quite what you had in mind when you thought about having children. But remember how you told me to politely ask questions and more importantly, you and Mum taught me to listen to the answers? Remember how you and Mum taught me good manners and respect for other peoples' feelings are what separates us from the lower forms of life? Remember how you taught me to respect and learn from other people and cultures? Those were good lessons you taught me. And you and Mum lead by good example. You walked the walk.
Until, well, now. Dad, I know it's really difficult and all that, but this is exactly the sort of situation you told me where manners and respect are most important. Grace under pressure, Dad. Respect for the professionals, Dad. Raise your hand and politely ask questions and really listen to the answers, Dad. Learn everything you can so you understand and act appropriately and responsibly.
It's not that we want to do this. It's not that you're the bad guy. We don't think less of you. We're not disappointed in you. We know how upsetting this is to you. It's upsetting to us, too. And if you think for one minute I want to sit here alone with Mum while you're exiled from the hospital, guess again and study better for the next test, Dad. Because I don't want to be the responsible one and I don't want to be here alone with Mum. We're a family and we're supposed to be together at "times like these." I have no one except you and Mum, and I need you here with me.
But. I don't need you to ignore the doctors. I don't need you tell the nurses they don't know what they're doing. I don't need you to upset Mum.
I don't want to hear a lot of what they're telling us, either, Dad, but we've got to hear it. Knowledge is power, Dad. Manners and respect matter, Dad. And that goes for pouting and scowling, too. Geeze. You used to send me to my room without books or crayons when I did that. Smile in the face of adversity, you told me. It'll still be bad but people will admire your positive attitude and remember that about you and that can come in handy down the road. It's easy to lose your temper but hard to gain respect.
I suppose it's difficult to hear your words thrown back at you. All those fatherly platitudes which sound so trite probably sting when recited back at you by your own daughter. I wish I didn't have to resort to that but the fact is they're good words and good lessons and I can't come up with any better ideas than the ones you taught me. Which means you're really smart or I'm really dumb, or both. I'm willing to accept both. Maybe one of your other children could do a better job, but they nominated me for this and ran like cowards and this is the best I can do.
So yeah, Dad, the point here is that I've been tasked with revoking your visitation privileges.
This hurts me more than it hurts you. But it's for your own good. I can't expect you to understand this now but someday you'll appreciate and respect me for it.
This should feel good. This should be one of the moments us kids live to experience. Getting back at our parents with their own words. There should be some smug satisfaction for me. But there's not. It's just making a sad and miserable situation a gazillion times worse. And it's my mother who will suffer from this. She's only semi conscious but I know she knows what's going on a lot of the time. I know she feels the tension and is frustrated, too. I know she needs me to do this difficult thing and I know she'll understand. Because she's my mother and she's really good at understanding. It's her thing. Still, it doesn't make it better or easier. "Yeah, I kicked Dad outta here because he's an angry old git, bwa ha ha..." is how I feel about this.
I thought my role as youngest and most troubled child exempted me from responsibility for The Big Parental Care Decisions. I thought I was supposed to be powerless and misunderstood. I thought I was supposed to be the one everyone babies and coddles. I thought I was supposed to struggle with being taken seriously as an adult and never given any real responsibility in the family. Not that I want any of that but right now being trapped in the throes of typical family birth order behavior stereotypes sounds good to me.
Having to face A Very Special Episode with my father wherein I have to have a serious grown-up talk to him about his "problem" while my mother is laying there fighting for life is not exactly my idea of a good way to prove my adult capabilities to the rest of the family.
There's a lot of irony here but one in particular is plaguing me. I spent my entire youth and a lot of my young adulthood behaving and being a good girl, doing as I was taught because that's who I was and also because I was afraid of the trouble I'd get into with my parents if I misbehaved or got into trouble. I didn't dread the punishment, heck, punishment was the easy part. My parents were very democratic in their familial judicial procedure. We were always made to explain ourselves and our side of the situation before a fair ruling and subsequent punishment was given. The thought of having A Discussion wherein I'd have to explain myself, my rationale and my misbehavior to my parents filled me with such dread that every time I was confronted with an option for misbehaving I'd quickly and without hesitation do the right thing. Easier to be responsible for myself than have to explain my stupidity, selfishness or lack of respect to my parents.
And yet, now here I am having to have A Discussion with my father about his irresponsibility and bad behavior.
There's a lot of poetic injustice in there, but that's not something I'm going to point out to my father at this juncture. He won't see the humor in the irony. My mother will, she'll get a laugh out of it, if and when she can laugh again. And when she laughs about it she'll make my dad laugh about it. So she's got to get better so my dad can laugh at me.
One huge ball of ironic confusion as a result of an ordeal. An ordeal begetting another ordeal. Oh sure, compared to what my mother's going through it's nothing. Oh sure, my father and I will get through this. We got through multiplication tables and fractions and even Calculous. If we can get through Calculous still speaking to each other we can get through anything. I hated Calculous but I hate this more. My mother was there to prevent my father from insisting I wasn't trying hard enough and insinuating I was one step up from primordial ooze when I struggled with math. But she's not able to buffer us from each other this time.
Dad, remember when you thought I was on drugs or brain damaged because I couldn't grasp Calculous and Mum explained that I wasn't actually smoking crack or handicapped but just differently abled? Remember how she pointed out to you that because I even bothered to spend the time to try to figure it out that I was in fact trying hard enough?
Yeah, well, maybe we can apply that logic here. Let's say you're you and I'm me and your emotional "problem" is Calculous. The hospital chief of staff represents Mum in this equation.
I'm trying really hard to understand "Calculous." I spend a lot of time trying to sort out the variables and theories. Sometimes I think I've finally figured it out and feel pretty good about my understanding. Sometimes I even come up with the right answer. But a lot of times I spend a lot of time doing a lot of work and end up with the wrong answer. I come to you for help understanding "Calculous" and you try to help me.
But I don't think the way you do and you can't make my brain work like yours and you get frustrated and worried about my actual capabilities and start thinking maybe you shouldn't have drank and smoked so much when you were younger because it resulted in a brain damaged child who you'll end up taking care of all your life because she's incompetent and unable to manage life because she can't even sort out "Calculous." You don't want to spend your life taking care of me because you're really looking forward to turning my room into a sewing room for Mum so she won't leave her projects out all over your den.
And you want me to have a successful life and enjoy the benefits of a good marriage and children like yours, or well, at least a marriage and kids like a couple of yours. You worry about my life and Mum's sewing room. A lot is riding on "Calculous." The more you try to help me understand, the seemingly more stoned or handicapped I become.
And just at the point where you think, "she's a lost cause, I might as well just paint the den pink," "Mum" comes along and says, "You need to take a step back and see how hard she's trying and understand not everyone thinks like you. She's doing the best she can. She won't fail for lack of trying and real effort," and then she points out all the success and abilities I have in other areas and "Calculous" might not be an indication of any future success or failure in life and maybe everything will work out okay after all and really, "Calculous" isn't really all that important.
Again, more proof it's a good thing I haven't married or reproduced. Can you imagine me trying to explain sex to a child? Or worse, Calculus?
