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, 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.
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?
