It seems we were born in sets, Jean, Joan (although they cheated 'cause they're twins); Vicky, Gary; me and you; Jimmy and Lisa--see what I mean? Like it or not, you're my other sibling half. Trying to live without my other half is like learning to walk after a broken leg that doesn't heal quite right. I'm just limping along. I just want it to be over with, need it to be over with. It being the operative word for the heartache, the tears that come on at any given moment, the anger and depression and that emptiness, so unbelievably present all the time. I pretend really well sometimes: hey look at me, I'm laughing, working, doing all the things I'm supposed to be doing--my academy award winning performance of moving on. Other times, depression wraps around me like a cocoon, and I can't shake it. Just not enough energy in me to perform. This feeling I carry with me is a close friend now. Nothing quite fills in that void. I miss talking to you on the phone. I could talk to you about whatever, with no judgment on your part; conversate about mom, how much we missed her, and you'd listen, and listen, and listen. I could get on a plane for a visit if I wanted to antagonize you in person as only a sister can, send an email or text with one word, HEY! And you'd call me back and say, "What up?" Our special formula for bastardizing the English language by cutting half of it out. And yet, the message was always relayed.
I'm trying to take care of Dad like you would if you were here. Although he claims he doesn't need any help. Yep, I know, his pride kickin' into overdrive, which had me thinking about something you said when mom passed. I was still in my apartment in University Place. I worry about Dad being by himself. It must be hard, you know? Never to hear Mom's voice again. I knew what was coming, and really did not want to hear it. You know, you should think about moving in with Dad. He needs you there. I mumbled some kind of halfhearted response like, "Yeah, yeah I'll think about." I was really comfortable in that apartment, and did not want to move in with Dad. I got off the phone and turned into a two-year-old who'd just been told it's nap time and wasn't ready for it. Major temper tantrum dude. I cried so long and so hard I couldn't see straight, nose pouring snot like Niagara Falls. But when it blew over and I felt normal again, I knew what I needed to do.
Dad's surgery was so bad Kenny, and he suffered, God did he suffer. All that medication they polluted his body with didn't even seem to touch on the pain he experienced. But he adjusted, with a few scary moments in between, and things are better now. I just wanted to let you know, we haven't left him alone to deal. I won't leave him alone. And if you were here, even with the cancer, I know you'd be here too. You were always so much more giving, and selfless than me. Me? Huh...I wear selfish like a Girlscout badge of honor. You know that's true. Although, I think we were pretty evenly matched when it came to being stubborn. That's a characteristic we all get honestly from Mom and Dad. Yeah? Yeah.
Hey, on a more cheerier note, you now have four new grandchildren. Maria got married and has Cody and Emily. Kenny's got two kids, Celeste and Adrian. Adrian looks like Kenny's little mini-me. Joan thinks he favors you, and Jimmy too when you were both little. They're beautiful kids, all of your grandchildren are incredible. Ariana gets to reign as the princess over all since she's the oldest. I wish you were here to see them. The kids have their issues to deal with Kenny, but they're doing the best they can to make a life for themselves without you here to share it with them. No easy task. You'd be proud of them though. I'm gonna get mushy now; I love you, and every day I miss you more. Okay, I'll stop talking.
Love,
Big Sis
Friday, August 20, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
Toilet Trauma
I think we can all agree that sometimes life just gets shitty. This is one of those times. Jean was visiting with Dad when she called me on Saturday. I was in my favorite position on the couch, watching TV and chillin' from a really long workweek. "Angie, your toilet is plugged up." My toilet? We had a visit from the plumber last weekend due to plumbing issues, so I knew my toilet was not plugged. And the "your" comment had me instantly on edge. For some reason, because I'm stationed at dad's during the week, I've been assigned a room with my name written in invisible ink above the door, and a bathroom with the same invisible name tag above it. I think the kitchen has been assigned to me as well. 'Your room, your bathroom, your kitchen'. And what that means is if something happens to said room, said bathroom, said kitchen, it has somehow become my responsibility to clean and/or unbreak what's broken. Pisses me off. My home is where I pay rent. Dammit!
"And you're calling me because...?" I asked.
"Oh," she says, "Dad told me to call you to ask if you put something down the toilet that doesn't belong there." Really?
How does one actually respond to that without frustration making you chew a hole through your bottom lip. "Tell Dad," I said calmly. "That I put a couple of tampons, an entire box of maxi pads and some beach towels down the toilet." She laughs. Not just a dainty little chuckle. No, my sister's laughter is usually over the top, like I'd just said something gut-busting, knee-slapping ridiculous funny. Hmmm...not so much. This was my weekend to be home, where I sit on my couch, or put things down my toilet if the need arises, and watch one movie after another on the really cool big screen television Tony brought with him when he moved in. The place where I can zone out for two days. And now Jean's on the phone (on Dad's say so), telling me the toilet at Dad's is plugged, and that said Dad asked her to call me to see if I put something down it? What the hell! My unprofessional advice? Put some hot water down the toilet then have a meet-n-greet with the frickin' plunger. Done! I didn't actually say that; after all, you don't shoot the messenger. I called Dad on Sunday to get the update on the toilet, and he said he'd looked, it wasn't working, and couldn't call anyone to fix it until Monday. Again, Dammit!
So Sunday, back at Dad's, and in a really shitty mood. Sorry about the overuse of "the word" (you know what word), but it just seems to fit the situation. Besides, the toilet is the most important seat in the house, and when it's not working life gets crazy. Anyway,"my" assigned toilet was not operating, and because of Dad's lack of housekeeping skills I was not using the bathroom in his bedroom or the bathroom downstairs. Although he reminded me when he heard me mumbling about bathroom ownership, that all of the bathrooms belonged to him as well as all the other rooms in the house. Gotcha Dad.
Royally peeved at having to fix the toilet that Dad reminded me didn't belong to me, I was stomping up and down the stairs with a pot of boiling hot water, when I heard him on the phone with his brother, Walter. He had him on speaker. As an FYI, Dad puts everyone on speaker. They were discussing the dynamics of a broken toilet like women in a sewing club discussing the complexity of a particular cross stitch. "Well, seems the toilet is stopped up." I'm frowning so hard now my brow is permanently creased and my head is starting to ache, as I make my way back up the stairs with scalding water spilling over the sides of mom's large dutch pot. "Is that so?" says my uncle. And Dad says, "Oh yeah. And I don't even use that bathroom." What does the fact that he doesn't use the bathroom have to do with it being plugged up? Geez. The good news is that after flushing a few pots of hot water through the toilet, life started to work itself out, and things began to flow quite nicely. Jean said later she tried really hard to fix the problem by pouring three tea kettles filled with hot water down the toilet. Did she say Tea Kettles?
Okay, so about Dad's progress...he's doing well enough to get on every body's nerves, and that's all I'm going to say about that. Although I'm concerned 'cause the chemo treatments are on-going. The doctor was going to discontinue chemo up until the day they found the spot on the ex-ray, which they'd hoped was only scar tissue from the surgery. When asked, Dad says, "They just decided to go at it a little bit longer until whatever is gone." What is "whatever"? I didn't ask. He's been a bit sensitive about his business since the time I called his doctor to ask if it was safe for him to drive with all the new meds. The 'whatever' bothers me a bit, but Dad seems to be doing much better, and my heart is lighter for that.
Oh by the way, the mystery to the toilet plugging incident was revealed by the lack of toilet paper in the bathroom, and the large roll of heavy duty paper towels sitting on the side of the sink. Uh-huh. Do I need to spell it out, or name names.
Jean, Desiree...you know what you did. I'm just saying.
Ciao.
"And you're calling me because...?" I asked.
"Oh," she says, "Dad told me to call you to ask if you put something down the toilet that doesn't belong there." Really?
How does one actually respond to that without frustration making you chew a hole through your bottom lip. "Tell Dad," I said calmly. "That I put a couple of tampons, an entire box of maxi pads and some beach towels down the toilet." She laughs. Not just a dainty little chuckle. No, my sister's laughter is usually over the top, like I'd just said something gut-busting, knee-slapping ridiculous funny. Hmmm...not so much. This was my weekend to be home, where I sit on my couch, or put things down my toilet if the need arises, and watch one movie after another on the really cool big screen television Tony brought with him when he moved in. The place where I can zone out for two days. And now Jean's on the phone (on Dad's say so), telling me the toilet at Dad's is plugged, and that said Dad asked her to call me to see if I put something down it? What the hell! My unprofessional advice? Put some hot water down the toilet then have a meet-n-greet with the frickin' plunger. Done! I didn't actually say that; after all, you don't shoot the messenger. I called Dad on Sunday to get the update on the toilet, and he said he'd looked, it wasn't working, and couldn't call anyone to fix it until Monday. Again, Dammit!
So Sunday, back at Dad's, and in a really shitty mood. Sorry about the overuse of "the word" (you know what word), but it just seems to fit the situation. Besides, the toilet is the most important seat in the house, and when it's not working life gets crazy. Anyway,"my" assigned toilet was not operating, and because of Dad's lack of housekeeping skills I was not using the bathroom in his bedroom or the bathroom downstairs. Although he reminded me when he heard me mumbling about bathroom ownership, that all of the bathrooms belonged to him as well as all the other rooms in the house. Gotcha Dad.
Royally peeved at having to fix the toilet that Dad reminded me didn't belong to me, I was stomping up and down the stairs with a pot of boiling hot water, when I heard him on the phone with his brother, Walter. He had him on speaker. As an FYI, Dad puts everyone on speaker. They were discussing the dynamics of a broken toilet like women in a sewing club discussing the complexity of a particular cross stitch. "Well, seems the toilet is stopped up." I'm frowning so hard now my brow is permanently creased and my head is starting to ache, as I make my way back up the stairs with scalding water spilling over the sides of mom's large dutch pot. "Is that so?" says my uncle. And Dad says, "Oh yeah. And I don't even use that bathroom." What does the fact that he doesn't use the bathroom have to do with it being plugged up? Geez. The good news is that after flushing a few pots of hot water through the toilet, life started to work itself out, and things began to flow quite nicely. Jean said later she tried really hard to fix the problem by pouring three tea kettles filled with hot water down the toilet. Did she say Tea Kettles?
Okay, so about Dad's progress...he's doing well enough to get on every body's nerves, and that's all I'm going to say about that. Although I'm concerned 'cause the chemo treatments are on-going. The doctor was going to discontinue chemo up until the day they found the spot on the ex-ray, which they'd hoped was only scar tissue from the surgery. When asked, Dad says, "They just decided to go at it a little bit longer until whatever is gone." What is "whatever"? I didn't ask. He's been a bit sensitive about his business since the time I called his doctor to ask if it was safe for him to drive with all the new meds. The 'whatever' bothers me a bit, but Dad seems to be doing much better, and my heart is lighter for that.
Oh by the way, the mystery to the toilet plugging incident was revealed by the lack of toilet paper in the bathroom, and the large roll of heavy duty paper towels sitting on the side of the sink. Uh-huh. Do I need to spell it out, or name names.
Jean, Desiree...you know what you did. I'm just saying.
Ciao.
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