HELP, The Other 4-Letter Word

Okay listen up all! Please stop dropping the "H" bomb around Dad; the only 4-letter word that literally sends him over the coo-coos nests. Debbie once commented, quite benignly I might add, "Angie stays at your house during the week to help you." Using the word "Help" was like dropping the "F" bomb, wrong word. He was off and running. "I don't need any help. I do everything for myself now." Shuttin' down the motor on his mouth after the "H" word is out is the barn door, horse analogy. Sorry, never lived on a farm, so not quite sure how that goes, but you get it. Right? Yeah. Dad says, "Matter of fact, I don't even know why she stays here and pays rent somewhere else. Doesn't make sense." Dad puts emphasis on a specific word every now and then for no other reason than he likes to raise his voice along with his blood pressure to emphasize a point, or two, or three. "She doesn't do anything. And she gets up really early. What's that all about?" By the tone in his voice it's like he's completely baffled, with no idea at all why I would have a credible reason for, in his thinking, such unusual behavior. Um...I need to be at work at 7:00am Dad. "Then after work she walks in the house and fiddles in the kitchen. I don't know what she's doing." There's no fiddlin' going on. Just washing some dirty dishes, pots and pans. That's all. He's always suspicious of everything and everyone. "And she goes to bed as soon as she gets home. What's that all about?" He says that a lot. Okay, I live in Tacoma, work in Seattle, so getting up when the frickin' rooster crows...Hello!...makes perfect sense, DAD!

So for the record, Dad's record, I don't do quat at Dad's anymore. For the most part, he is taking care of his personal health needs, grocery shopping, driving himself to and from his doctor's appointments and cooking his own meals. I provide a few amenities like having coffee peculating in the morning--and Dad will tell you that sometimes I forget to do even that--I take out the garbage and clean the kitchen. And I have to add that it's not that he can't do these things-he can--I just like to (insert said word discreetly) where I can. Oh yes, I also arrange his medications for the week in a nice little organizer Jean bought him. So see...I'm doing very little these days. And considering how far he's come since the surgery, I'm okay with that. We met our objective to get him on his feet. I still like to stay at Dad's during the week...because...well, I worry, and I don't like him to be alone at night. I will admit though, verbal communication between us is limited. I walk in the door and speak on the run, "Hey dad, how ya doing?" He usually yells something back, "Fine." Very short and clipped. Shoot, I've gotta keep it short 'cause Dad can talk you comatose. Can't handle it after working all day. I hit the stairs real fast and climb into bed for sleezy my neezy. Oh...still hip.

So there you have it. Watch your dirty mouths around Dad; using the "H" bomb gets him all worked up. To Dad, insinuating that he may need a little (you know) is paramount to saying he's completely debilitated and ready to be put away somewhere. His biggest fear. With Dad, his pride gets in the way sometimes and we just gotta find ways to work around it. It's challenging, oh yeah it is. But that's how we do when we care enough, to care enough, about how someone else feels. He's our Dad after all, and we love 'em even when he's a cranky old butt.

Here's my disclaimer: I was not in the room during the aforementioned dialogue and scenerios referenced in my post. However, the information I've gathered was provided to me by reputable sources, the names of which will not be disclosed. Besides, I know Dad's m.o. If my sources say he said it, he did. So there.

Message to Heaven

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

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.

Shorty Update

Okay so here's the deal, can't write in my blog while I'm at dad's 'cause he took away my privileges when his laptop went on the blink. Of course, after hinting that "someone" had messed with "something" they shouldn't have, he found out after fiddling with the cords connected from his desk top to the jack in the wall, that it was a loose connection. But if you think I've regained access to his office, you'd be wrong. Nope, door's still locked. So now I'm trying to drop a note or two on dad's progress and my progress dealing with dad, at work when I should be reviewing a policy or binding coverage. Whatever. So about dad...he's doing really well, I think. I even caught him walking around the house the other day without using his cane. When I mentioned it, he mumbled, "Well, I'm doing alright, but not one hundred percent, you know." I think he likes us all hanging around but he's just too stubborn to admit it. His cognitive abilities seem to be much improved since they changed his insulin to once a day. Dad says the new one-a-day meds are expensive and they don't the option of using it -- or even tell you there is a better option -- until after you've struggled with the cheaper stuff. Typical, when insurance companies are involved. But he's improving and that's what really counts. The other day I forgot to include one of his medicines in the med container -- I think he checks my work after I go upstairs. I'm usually very careful so it bothered me that I forgot to include a couple of pills, but he caught it and to be honest, I'm glad he's paying attention. Anyway, that's about it. Ciao.

Dad's Dog

I don’t particularly dislike dogs. But when my Dad got the 3-year-old, German Shepard-mixed pup almost twelve years ago, I was determined not to bond with the yippy dog that acted like she’d been intravenously pumped with caffeine. It bothered me that such a rambunctious animal was not placed with a family with kids and a yard where it could romp and play. Although my dad referred to her from time to time over the years, I pretty much intentionally forgot she was even in the back yard. And around the time I divorced my second husband, I found I actually preferred cats. The reference to dogs and my ex is purely coincidental. Sort of.

When Dad had his surgery in December, through the process of elimination, I was nominated to feed and water Dad’s dog until he recovered and could do it himself. Arrrgg, I was not pleased but the dog had to eat. Right? BUT, I was determined not to become her newest play date. Not me, I prefer cats. Dad was in the hospital for 3 weeks, and during that time I’d leave Seattle after work on the bus to the Tacoma Dome Park-n-Ride, hustle over to the house to feed and water his dog, then head over to the hospital to see Dad. December was really chilly and after the first week, and I was a bit concerned with her being out in the elements, not to mention, her water bowl kept freezing over which really worried me. After getting a bit of advice from a co-worker, I tossed a large wool pillow I bought at Pet Smart into her digs to keep her warm. I’d come back the next day and find the pillow behind a tree or in the bushes. She and I had a “chat” and it was agreed that she would stop tossin' the pillow, because if she continued her shenanigans she would freeze to death. I figured a blunt approach worked best. The pillow stayed in the doghouse after that. I considered looking into getting her more comfortable accommodations, like the fancy igloo doghouse my sister found online, however Doug, dad’s neighbor, said it would be a waste of money and assured me that after all of these years, the dog was happy with her current living situation. Never dawned on me to ask Dad's dog how she felt about it.

Dad’s had some ups and downs since December and hasn’t quite gotten to the place yet where he feels comfortable taking those stairs that exit the garage to the back yard, in order to feed his dog. He’s afraid of falling, so the care of the pooch has remained in my hands. Yip.

I don’t recall at what point over the last 6 months Dad’s dog started to tug on my heart strings. It was a gradual thing. Could have been the funny way she’d try to recapture some of that spunk from her youth by doing a rain dance around me whenever I’d visit. To out smart her, I’d toss a beggin’ strip across the yard and when she’d romp to grab it I’d jog down the stairs and jump over some fallen tree branches to get to her water and food bowl before she'd finished her snack, so I could refill them. Fait Accompli without being licked to death. I’m very clever.

Dad called me on my way home from work yesterday and asked, “Are you on the bus?” I said yes. “Well, Pepper died.” Oh. I think I said it out loud. Not sure. I held back until I’d made it to my car. Then I cried all the way home. I wish I'd bought her the igloo dog house.

I walked in the front door and slipped on some rubber gloves. I had to check her for myself. I picked up the bag of beggin’ treats sitting on the dryer. Just in case. I found her lying behind a huge oak, as if she were sleeping. She liked to lay there sometimes because it offered shade on hot days. One touch and I knew, and I cried some more. I tossed the dog treats in the garbage on the way into the kitchen. My 'ole dog was past minding.

Her name was Pepper. One of the sweetest tempered pooches I've ever had the honor of knowing. And I'll miss her.

Our Crabby Old Man

Dad has become a bit of a doolally tap, a term I once heard my English colleague and friend use in reference to her mother-in-law. It means to be mad, or very eccentric. I’m not sure if this was her intent, but I’m using the term with a whole lot of love and affection laced with some serious irritation. When I returned from beloved isolation at my own residence yesterday, he announced quite crankily that someone (meaning me), had messed with his laptop, disconnecting some cords and now it’s not working. “Because of this,” he says, “I don’t want anyone (a.k.a. mainly me), messing with my stuff anymore.” I literally forced something across my lips and hoped it was a smile and not the frown I was feeling on the inside, and said through clinched teeth. “Dad, I did not touch your laptop and I don’t know who did.” Although I suspect that whatever happened to dad’s laptop had a lot to do with the tinkering he was doing on it last Thursday when we thought the Internet connection was lost, but I wasn’t about to voice that thought. I’d noticed he was a tad irritated when I’d called on my way back to the house to tell him I was on my way. He’d called me earlier in the day to see when I was coming back so I could help him change the wafer that the colostomy bag connects to, and I told him I’d be back late evening. He said that’d be fine. So when I came in the door at around 8:45 pm I asked, “Are you going to shower so we can change the wafer?” His reply was a bit on the snippy side. “I didn’t know if you were even going to show up so I just did it myself.” Whoa. I show up every Sunday.

As I was going upstairs he continued on, “I asked Jean if she did it. Of course, she said no.” I can hear the click, click of his cane as he slowly makes it from the living room to the family room. “I asked Tony if he did it, and he said no. Nobody touched my computer and yet it’s not working.” Still about the damn laptop? At around 11:30 p.m. I decided sneak into his office to use his desktop to write in my blog, which I'd been preauthorized to do by the way, but the door to his office was locked. Yeah. Nothing says I love and appreciate you like distrust.

To be fair, Dad’s probably on edge because he has an appointment today for an ex-ray, and he has every right to be. He got the results back last Wednesday from a scan he took a week or so ago and they found a spot. The ex-ray will determine whether it’s more cancer or scar tissue from his surgery. I pray it's the latter.

He’s been through a helluva lot over the past few months so he’s certainly entitled to be a bit irritable from time to time. Although I have to add Dad could fry a last nerve before surgery. Whatever. He’s dad and we love him. But some days…oh Lordy.

Please God, let it be scar tissue.

Crabby Old Man

What do you see nurses? .......What do you see?
What are you thinking..........when you're looking at me?
A crabby old man, .............not very wise,
Uncertain of habit ............with faraway eyes?

Who dribbles his food..........and makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice..."I do wish you'd try!"
Who seems not to notice .......the things that you do.
And forever is losing .........A sock or shoe?

Who, resisting or not..........lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding ......The long day to fill?
Is that what you're thinking?..Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse.....you're not looking at me.

I'll tell you who I am ........As I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, ......as I eat at your will.
I'm a small child of Ten.......with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters ..........who love one another

A young boy of Sixteen ........with wings on his feet
Dreaming that soon now. .......a lover he'll meet.
A groom soon at Twenty ........my heart gives a leap.
Remembering, the vows..........that I promised to keep.

At Twenty-Five, now ...........I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide ..........And a secure happy home.
A man of Thirty ...............My young now grown fast,
Bound to each other ...........With ties that should last.

At Forty, my young sons .......have grown and are gone,
But my woman's beside me.......to see ! I don't mourn.
At Fifty, once more, ..........Babies play 'round my knee,
Again, we know children .......My loved one and me.

Dark days are upon me .........My wife is now dead.
I look at the future ..........I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing ..young of their own.
And I think of the years.......And the love that I've known.

I'm now an old man.............and nature is cruel.
'Tis jest to make old age .....look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles..........grace and vigor, depart.
There is now a stone...........where I once had a heart.

But inside this old carcass ...A young guy still dwells,
And now and again .......my battered heart swells.
I remember the joys.............. I remember the pain.
And I'm loving and living.............life over again.

I think of the years ...all too few......gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact........that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people .........open and see..
Not a crabby old man. Look closer....see........ME!!

I like this poem. It reminds us that sometimes it's crucial that we look past what we see, and allow our hearts to be governed by what we know. Yeah. That's so it.