Do not read this post if you are not up for misery and suffering. Things have, unbelievably, taken a turn for the worse. So. . . I urge you not to go further than this.
On the other hand, I know for a fact that some people are enjoying my turning and twisting of fate. I sent this to a longtime friend the other day. You needn't watch more than a minute or so to get the idea.
Do you know what he wrote back?
"You used to be like him"
Well, I wasn't. I didn't have a plane, didn't have money. But. . . "used to" is the rub.
Selavy.
People got married to people they loved. They had children. They went after that old American Dream. I tried, but I fucked it all up, I guess. But while they were taking their kids to soccer practice and arguing with their spouses about the things spouses argue about. . . I wasn't. I didn't have children, so I didn't have to be like Brando, the ultimate absent parent.
Now, I think, mamy enjoy my suffering the wages of my "sin." The thing is, there just wasn't much sin, just fun.
Now--and I'm not talking about any one individual but a whole host of my married friends--they wonder if HRT will put the passion back into their lives.
"Absolutely," I say. "It's the magic bullet."
People are nice enough. From time to time, someone will ask how I'm "holding up." They offer encouragement. "Is there anything I can do?"
I'm not being critical. If it sounds as if I am, I am not. I am pretty certain I wouldn't even offer that because I know I am incapable of doing much to help other than telling a few jokes, etc. I might be a little bitter, but I am not criticizing.
If that makes sense. Depends upon your mood when you read this, I think. People do want to tell me that they went through this with their parent/grandparent, etc. They haven't. Nobody who tells me such things has gone through this without help all on their own. There are certainly others, but I've not met any of them yet.
Yesterday morning, I went to see my mother. She was pretty out of it, so I stayed a bit and then told her I would come back in the afternoon. At two-thirty, I got a call from her. I was napping, so I only heard her message at three.
"Are you coming up today? I can't find my charger. O.K."
I called.
"I came to see you this morning."
"Really? I don't remember."
I got dressed and drove to the hospital once again. My mother was up and more alert. We chatted. The physical therapist had come and had her use the walker in a circle in the room.
"That's not a walk," she said, and so he took her down the hallway and back. The doctor, she said, had come to see her. She couldn't recall their conversation.
In a moment, a woman came into the room and introduced herself as a Case Management worker. My mother was being discharged, she said. Did we need homecare?
"What?"
"We can arrange for someone to come in a couple times a week to help your mother."
The adrenaline dump.
"What are you talking about? My mother needs to go to rehab until we see how much care she is going to require."
Nope. The physical therapist had written she was ready to go.
"So," I said pointing to my mother, "you think she can take care of herself?"
"That's not really our concern after she is discharged. It is up to the family. . . ."
I was pushing down my anger as hard as I could, but my eyes had sharpened to combat mode.
"Fine. It's up to you. I'm not taking her home, so what are you going to do, wheel her out to the curb?"
This went on a bit longer, then she said she would have to talk to a supervisor.
"Right."
And in a little while, the supervisor came in. She was no more helpful than the lackey had been. They are used to having the power, I know, and use it on people unprepared to argue. I'm positive she looked at me and saw another lawn maintenance man who used to be a surfer DOOD. And that is where we start. In an officious tone I am all too familiar with, she begins to tell me it is not their responsibility. . . .
I wave my arms. "None of this is your responsibility. You are just living off the proverbial corporate tit. But when it comes to compassionate care? I'm not taking her home. I can't do this. I can wash her hair, scrub her back, prep her meds, cook, clean, fetch and chaufer, but I can't do this. I have no idea how to do this."
I pointed to the catheter that was running piss through a tube into a glass container.
The woman's face changed.
"I didn't know she was on that."
"She was put into bed with a diaper and never gotten up the entire time she has been here. They tell her to just go to the bathroom in her diaper. I need to know if she is going to be able to use the bathroom by herself again. She needs to go to rehab so we can try to get her back to where she was before she came in."
The conversation changed. I told her I had put in a call to the palliative care person who had suggested Hospice just last week.
"Oh, no. . . no. . . ."
She said she would go back and try to get her into rehab.
Nice. But I have no idea how this is going to turn out.
When the woman left, my mother said, "I couldn't hear what you all were saying."
And that is where I am. That is all the help I will have in the coming. . . how long?
My entire being gave up. Neuralgia has taken over my body. I don't know if it is psychological or if the stress has brought on whatever evil disease that lurks inside us all. I couldn't move. I couldn't do anything.
When I went to bed, I decided I needed something stronger than Tylenol. I took a hydrocodone. An hour later, I was lying awake in bed feeling exactly as I had. I got up and took a Tylenol P.M. An hour later, I was lying in bed awake and thinking the same hideous things I had hours before. I got up and took a Xanax. I thought about taking everything I had in my cabinet. I wanted to go to sleep and not wake up. There was nothing in life to look forward to at this point. No help. Only strife. Fuck me, I'm tired of dealing with everything all the time. I don't care anymore. I just don't.
I am up late this morning with the drug blues feeling no better than I did. My entire body hurts. There must be a cause, but I don't have a clue and I don't want to go to a doctor. I've been watching my mother, and I would rather take the pills than do what she is doing.
So. . . if you are here, I told you not to read this at the top of the post. Never has life been so dire, so bleak.
People send me words.
"Stay strong ! You have no other choice ❤️"
Oh. . . but that is not true, is it? It really isn't. But thanks. "Just keep taking the beating," is what I hear.
I appreciate everyone, of course. People are swell.
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