The Deepest Love


There are times in our lives that some of us unfortunately experience that take our breath away. Not in a good way. No romance here, enlightenment or euphoria. I’m talking about those times that punch your chest; and instead of reminding you that you’re alive, you barely feel alive. 

You wake up each day dreading the feeling of the floor under your feet. The aches and pains set in from your restless night of worry. 

Have no fear that I am tore asunder. I am a woman, a wife and most importantly, a mother. I am a person of strength; yet strength shall see weakness from time to time.  Those that I carry on my shoulders may at times carry me. We may find ourselves at times entangled together. When we do, have faith that we shall find a way to once again stand.

I will never let you fall. 

I love you

Intense Discomfort


It’s been 7 months since my father was moved into our home. I can’t stop thinking lately about how I feel that now is the most awkward part of this yet. 

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. 

My Son, Part 3 of Gratefulness 


Where do I begin, Seth. You’re a hard one. Even finding a photo of you is next to impossible, my secretive son. I’d give anything to be inside your head for a day. 

As a small boy, you’d walk around the house creating stories. Dressed to the nines with matching pajamas, slippers and the toys to go with their theme for the day. Neat. Clean eating. Bedtime regime, without parental guidance. 

It’s like you knew who you were already. Sitting in the recliner watching television upside down. Drawing, upside down. Crowds made you scream. Water frightened you. You were and are eccentric. A spy maybe? Or maybe someone who just likes to view the world a little differently. From within.

You lost a friend when you were young. His death was tragic and even more so since it was by his father’s hand. I felt a piece of you leave Earth after that. I’m so sorry. 

Your talent in art is nothing short of incredible and I hope someday you will let the world see it. 

Your mind is photogenic and always learning. Without you, I’d never know Mike the Headless Chicken ever existed.

I remember a day that I was snuggling with my soon to be husband, Joe… the one you called Joe Mama. We were in our own little heaven and you walked by us and said quietly something I won’t share. I’m keeping it. It was then however, that I discovered your talent for dark humor and I got you. I get you. I love you. 

Good morning, morning.

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.

Let’s Talk About This…

I’ve been pretty silent lately. I haven’t felt like writing or much of anything, if I’m being honest. Ever since my Aunt Tammie committed suicide, I’ve been in a slump. 
Then there’s my father. He got out of the hospital on Feb. 3rd. I was still down in Tennessee helping deal with my Aunt’s affairs when he was released. By the time I came home he was pretty happy I’d made it back. I was pretty happy that he was back. 

I’m possibly going to sound completely as if all my empathetic ways have been torn from my soul; but I promise they have not been, nor am I about to give up. However, as of late my father has turned into yet another character I must walk on eggshells around. I’m completely feeling as if now I’m the one out of control at times. I can’t even make a damn salad.
Two months to the day he was released from the hospital I found myself sitting in a soft leather chair in front of my father’s new psychiatrist. Just that morning my father had decided to start talking. He’d apparently decided also that he’s ready to drive his Jeep three hours on the interstate. Next week my brother is flying in from California and dad wants his Jeep there so he can “run errands”. Errands for what? Not to be rude, but there’s absolutely no reason he needs his Jeep not to mention the danger this means. 
As I witness my father being unwilling to wear proper shoes around the house, come near to falling, have dizzy spells and shake his spoon as he’s trying to eat, I wonder. Wonder why he thinks he’s ready to go from 0-60 just like that. I spoke my mind about it prior to the appointment. Now in the appointment I stayed rather quiet until the end when I mentioned the driving. The psychiatrist agreed with me. This wasn’t fitting to my father’s liking. He asked if he could possibly be taken off some of his medicine. Here we go. Again and again like the revolving doors I always expect to malfunction and rip a toenail off.
Once we got home, I was met with questions of why I had moved him into my house. Why did I not think about mowing his yard, his income taxes, his homestead exemption, his this and that and this and that. For reason I am just not willing to delve into, I’m not going to explain why all of these questions are maddening other than saying… someone at one time in the past took advantage of my father. So badly in fact, that he doesn’t even own his home. That’s right… it’s not even his. So how is that my fault? 
Somehow I feel as if it’s all my fault. My father told me that he wants his independence back and he’s thinking he may just want to move back home. I told him that unfortunately that really blows for me considering I left my job to care for him. All he could say to me was he thought I was crazy for that and you know what, I guess I was. 
I responded by explaining to him how much better his life is with us. How his diabetes is under control, his cholesterol is back to normal, he eats healthy, we’ve sacrificed for him to be able to say those things. He shrugs and says he’s sorry I feel that way. Feel what way? I haven’t sacrificed? In a little bit of anger I blurted out that it would be nice to hear a thank you to us for all we’ve done rather than demands. He shrugged again. I never got my thank you. 
So here I am wondering why I am a caring, loving daughter? Why do I give a shit? 
Damn. 
So let’s wake up tomorrow and see where we are heading… cause it seems like every few months I have a new father. I wish he could understand the world and his place a little better. How frustrating he is. How unpredictable life with him is. I wish that he would just say thank you. I wish mostly that he knew he is loved.