Pulse, blend, liquefy, shred, crush, pulverize
There is no button for smoothie
Pulse, blend, liquefy, shred, crush, pulverize
There is no button for smoothie
My father was in a psychiatric ward for three and a half weeks in which I went every night to see him, with the exception of missing three nights because…
My Aunt committed suicide
Went 7 hours away to support my mother and had to ID my Aunt.
Hell I could be wrong, but I believe this is the month one of my best friend’s father had a really bad stroke.
Skin cancer removed from my nose for a second time.
Grieving. Anger approaching.
My dad started saying angry things to me about his situation and seemed to be blaming me for moving him into my home.
Made a trip to go through my Aunt’s home and personal items. Ugh.
My Aunt’s boyfriend had a very horrible accident in a logging truck and was pronounced brain dead. No family, so now we’ve got his things to contend with.
Feeling guilty, still grieving.
My anxiety is getting really out of whack. Counselor, hated her. Another, hated him.
My anxiety ridden son actually went to prom when asked to go. Finally a good thing.
Found a counselor I really love.
Discovered we have a $5,000.00 medical bill our insurance isn’t going to pay for because it’s for my husband’s back. He hurt his back jumping out of a helicopter years ago, so they say it’s service connected and won’t pay it.
While visiting home , my step-father had a pretty bad heart attack after dinner.
Grieving, angry, feeling frustrated.
My son’s anxiety is turning into depression. I have so much worry about him. My spouse and I are not getting along too well. We have stress? You think? He begins to come to my counseling sessions for support.
My daughter’s car door handle fell off on the passenger side. The trunk won’t open either.
My dad keeps acting like he’s got something to say, but he won’t say it. Finally told me he wants to move back to his house. Oh my gosh, I just can’t keep up with all of this. I quit my job to take care of him. Granted I do get money from his trustee out of his funds to help for the absence of pay, but I left a GOOD job that I’m probably never going to find again.
My daughter graduated high school. She keeps talking about moving in with her boyfriend of three years.
Ahhhh. Stress. I’m still grieving. I feel like I’m on a nightmare roller coaster.
JUNE: My daughter’s driver side door handle fell off. Laugh. Just laugh.
Our Toyota died. Hysterical laughing.
Dad treats me like a servant and all my repressed anger about being left out of the family farm corporation is building up inside me. Did my grandparents leave me out of it because I’m a female or because their son adopted me and they refuse me as blood? They’re dead and all the men in my family run the show. The shit show. None of them even speak to each other. Oh and grandma and grandpa if you’re watching down on us…. look who’s taking care of your precious bipolar son. The woman, not related to you by blood.
Daughter’s boyfriend breaks up with her.
Son is bad, real bad. Hospital time. Someone get this kid on the right medicine. I love him so so so much. We need to move back to where we moved from because that’s the one thing we know for sure we could do to help our son be happier.
Husband stabs himself accidentally in the bicep. Yep. He was at work, I did not do it.
Oh Mr. Loan officer, you say I can’t use my trust income for the mortgage loan and so we can only use my husband’s income to buy a four bedroom home we need in order to fit us all??? FRACK.
My mother. She’s in pain both physically and emotionally and I can’t save her.
Ring…. Ring…. insurance hasn’t paid any of your counseling bills and they aren’t going to because of blah blah blah.
Ex husband modifies child support because daughter graduated and instead of 7% less he made it for 57% less and the freaking judge signed off on it so now I have to contest everyone’s stupidity.
Husband has stitches removed and was told he has to see an ortho surgeon because he’s more than likely sliced his muscle.
Husband’s father looks like he’s having a stroke only it’s not, it’s a brain tumor. Brain surgery on Monday.
Worry. That’s number one right now, worry. Anger, grief and my own anxiety need to all get in the back seat and shut the F up.
Panic attack, husband soothes me to the point of getting it under control. Kisses my forehead and lays down next to me. We tightened our interlaced fingers together and I say, I feel closer to you and he whispers back, so do I.
Locked keys in car along with spare.
Husband’s father has brain surgery. The tumor is malignant.
JULY: BRING IT!
When I started writing about bringing my father into my home, I didn’t realize how stagnant some of the days would be. Most days are filled with (him) watching television right now. I keep asking him everyday to go on walks with me, but he won’t. He says his hip hurts, so I am going to make sure that gets brought up to his doctor. I’m trying to decide if it’s an excuse.
He did go with us to the zoo two weekends ago. Albeit a small zoo, but he walked the zoo. Then this past weekend, my beautiful daughter graduated from high school. He got a haircut and a beard trim the day before. He took a shower the day of! Yes for small triumphs!
Now on to my life…
What can I say? I’ve worried over the past 8 months that I wouldn’t be available enough for my teens. There have been times I’ve felt bad. Literally, I’ve felt bad because I’m pretty sure when my father was in his catatonic depression that I was going down that path as well. I’m good now. At least I think. I’m learning that my teens don’t need me as much as I’d like them to. I’m also learning that allowing my apron strings to fall to the floor is a healthy process that we must go and charge forth with.
The day of graduation I was my usual unorganized self running around and finding that I only had 30 minutes to get ready all of a sudden. Happens every damn time I have something important to do. I spent most of my afternoon trying to get my son to sign his sister’s card, which he did in his dark humor of ‘Rest in peace, you were a cool sister.’ Ugh.
It was time for Rowan to drive off ahead of us to the school; and as she was flying out the door and I was trying to get a hug that I never got, she handed me several cards. She asked me to give them to the people they were addressed to.
The door slammed and I looked down to see these tiny little thank you cards. One for her best friend’s mother, her boyfriend’s parents, my father, my mother, my step-father, her brother, my husband and myself.
I haven’t spontaneously cried at the first sentence of written words in years. The affirmation that I’m doing it right, I’m doing it right for her. It may not be perfect and it may not be the best mothering a mother can do, but I’ll be damn… she thinks so and that’s all that matters.
One might think that having your father outside your home dancing in Native American Pow Wow fashion would be uncomfortable. Or perhaps begging your father to eat. The reality for me is that right now is boring. It’s uncomfortable.
My father does the exact same routine everyday.
E .V. E. R. Y.
D. A. M. N.
D. A. Y.
This means I get to live through the same day everyday.
He mutters perhaps two or three sentences each day that aren’t coaxed out of him. That’s it. Every other minute is watching T.V. or eating. I can’t get him to do anything unless we have to go out for an appointment. He did ride with me today to Petco. He stayed in the car. It’s a start.
I feel like I’m just complaining, but please note that I am not. I’m fascinated by this and albeit sad and sometimes mind blowing irritating, I’m not complaining.
I’m fascinated by the fact that for three weeks straight my father will eat waffles for breakfast. Then for another few weeks he’ll switch it up to scrambled eggs and a piece of toast. Same for lunch and same for television. It’s all or nothing with him. Routine, routine, routine.
It’s really rather boring. I made a choice to leave this past Saturday and take my daughter shopping. I left him home alone. He called me once to see if he could let my dogs outside and one other time to tell me he can’t find the spaghetti I put in the fridge. He actually said, “Well I see spaghetti, but it’s not on a plate.” Okay dad, really. That’s your spaghetti and I’m sorry I didn’t do the entire process of food on plate for you.
This is why I decided to leave and spend time with my daughter.
Filling in the rest of the day is shame. Lots and lots of shame. For some reason I’ve been thinking about a situation I was in when I was 14. I was on vacation in Florida. I got inside the elevator to go up to our condo. There was myself, two guys probably in their 30’s and two other young girls my age. The elevator broke down. I can’t remember just exactly how long we were in there, but I can tell you that it was a long time and something horrifying happened in there.
One of the young girls started crying and long story short, it turns out she was going up to her room because she had to poop. Yep, I just said that. This was like 30 years ago, so no one was in a damn hurry to get us out of there. It got to the point that we were all consoling her and telling her we understood. I mean, she really had to go. So she did. Literally.
I’ve been thinking about this lately because it’s one of those awkward moments in life that just by weird chance I was part of. I don’t know that girl, couldn’t tell you what she looked like, but I can remember what happened. I wonder if she remembers us… I would be willing to bet she remembers all of our faces. It’s probably one of the most vivid, horrid, embarrassing memories this person has of her adolescence.
What a strange thing to compare my father with, but that’s how my brain works. I feel like when I look at my father holding his hand over his forehead, he’s thinking about all the times he’s shit in his pants. Figuratively.
The moment you were placed into my cradling arms, is a time in my history that I shall never forget. It’s the very moment in my life that I realized I wasn’t alone anymore. I won’t lie, it frightened me to the very core of my being.
I have moments in time that I wish I could go back to visit. I would give anything to read to you again. To be able to bathe you. If I could just go back to holding you while you slept so peacefully against my neck. To feel you breathing against my skin.
I received a card when you were born from my Uncle Richard. Over the years, for reasons here and there, I have dragged that card out and read it’s perfect story. Inside the card Uncle Richard wrote an excerpt from Khalil Gibran On Children. It has stayed with me my entire path of motherhood. We aren’t given direction on how to be a mother. A mother should know. It’s not always true. I’ve often thought that I was just one of those rare lucky mothers who happened to bare an old soul.
You have the wit and beauty of someone who has seen centuries. My lovely, Rowan. The little red one. Thank you for this adventure you’ve brought me into. I’m already dreaming of where it will take me.
“You may give them your love but not your thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.”
Change often leads to wonderful things.
I found him one morning at around 5:45. The two of us were alone in the elevator going to the 4th floor. I couldn’t stop staring at his pulsing jaw and wondering what had made him so angry.
Neither of us said a word. In fact, I’m pretty sure he was alone for the ride. I often wondered if I was invisible.
It was Winter and the air cut through my skin in a way that only Midwestern know. My heels were loud on the parking lot making their presence known against the asphalt and the cold dark morning. I was looking for the angry man. I couldn’t stop myself from seeking out his impassioned marrow.
Days went by of being alone with this newly found excitement. I think he may have looked at me once. His jaw, always pulsing.
I parked my car one morning in a different spot. I was always so predictable and this made me feel secure again. There he was walking by and I was unnoticed. Invisible once again. My sense of cover was shattered when I realized the angry man seemed to be searching for me. His pace slowed, he looked left and right. The very fact that this excited me made me wonder if I should wear my cloak again.
He should have already been long gone; yet there he was waiting, ready to ride the 4 floors with me. We were alone again. Is it possible that I have found fate?
I was the first to utter a word.
I said good morning to the pulsing jaw. It seemed to relax as it answered back. Somehow in the months to follow as Winter thawed into Spring, I started to learn that the anger came from tours in Iraq and Afghanistan.
His jaw was starting to become more relaxed with each passing day.
My angry little bird turned from missile to feathered fowl. He was soft to the touch and soothing to my soul.
I started counseling. I’m on my third counselor. The first woman sent me to another counselor she felt best suited for me. That’s okay, she had a mullet and I can’t take that seriously.
The man counselor always sat with his back arched in his extendable office chair with his hands interwoven behind his head. He grunted a lot. I think he used to be a linebacker. I need a softer touch.
My new counselor has a huge office. All the furniture is Mid Century modern in the softest shades of grays and blues. The Kleenex box is inside another fancy box and I actually think she uses the real deal-Kleenex with lotion. Ahhh.
She asked me to practice gratefulness.
Okay-I have to admit to something. Yesterday I was in the yard pulling up weeds and just piddling around. I had this idea to be grateful for finding a four leaf clover, only I never did.
Then I realized I was doing it again… I was trying to control. I was even controlling my own gratitude based on what I specifically thought I should be thankful for. What a power struggle inside my mind.
I took a moment to readjust my brain and lay on the grass for a moment in the sunshine. I said silently to myself over and over, “I am thankful for this peaceful moment and for having my own yard to have this moment in.”
I’m getting there.