Afterlife

As I was surfing through my favorite blogs today, one in particular called out her favorite bloggers and in particular Amalah. I've never been a follower of that blog, even though it's one of the most popular ones on the interwebz. I followed the link, read a few posts, and felt the memories come flooding back.

Her father is dying of cancer.

I have really been missing my father lately. I can't help but think that since Nick was born exactly 4 months and a day after my father died, that somehow my dad had something to do with us getting such a sweet, sweet boy.

My dad was a total prankster, and absolutely adored dogs. When we moved back to Virginia back in 1997, a German Shepherd-mix was dropped off on the road by my parents' house and my dad ended up adopting him. Brutus was his best buddy for many years until he died of a heart attack while my parents were traveling in Europe. My dad was devastated and never, ever had another dog after that.

Fast forward to when we got Rufus. He has always been on the shy side, but when he growled at my dad and then my dad growled back, Rufus determined that Grandpa was not to be trusted. Thus began a dance between the two of them every time they were in the same room. Rufus would sidle up to my dad, getting juuuust close enough - my dad would attempt to pet him and Rufus would jump away, wagging his tail and grinning. The only time Dad was ever able to pet him was when Rufus was asleep.

My dad would absolutely adore Nick, not only because of his cuteness but also his sweet disposition. As a matter of fact, Nick is like my dad in dog form. Sweet, good natured, a little stubborn, and smart as hell. A deadly combination.

Last year was so draining. I adored my father to the ends of the earth. He was and is my hero. Watching his illness progress was one of the hardest things I've ever had to live through, if not the hardest thing. He was so brave, and faced death with a stoicism that I still admire to this day. He trusted in his God to hold him in his hand and guide him through his final days.

The last day he was truly lucid was July 31st, his 89th birthday. He suffered through his birthday party with our family and by the end was a total wreck from the pain. After that, they bumped up his medication and he remained in a haze for the next two weeks.

As I sat by his bedside that last week, I held his hands for hours while I traced every line, vein, and spot with my finger. He was completely lost in the clouds of painkillers, which only allowed him a few lucid moments each day and I treasured every second of them. I had already said everything that needed to be said, and heard him say everything that I needed to hear. There were only slow, steady motions of comfort left to offer. Smoothing his beautiful silver hair, giving him a manicure without him complaining about the ever present split nail on his index finger. Rubbing lotion onto his arms and hands. Giving him a nice, warm shave and brushing his teeth for him.

I wasn't there when he died. I had actually left work that day with the intention of driving down that night to see him, since we all knew it was getting close to the end. There were horrible thunderstorms though, and I decided to wait and leave in the morning. He died just before 11 PM that night.

After he was gone, my sister called me and could barely speak. When the phone rang, I knew it was all over. I laid in the dark for hours, with the tears coursing down my face with a mixture of sadness and relief. Peace had finally come. A peace he deserved.

There is a certain kinship that people share when they've lost a parent, no matter what age. You give each other that knowing look, the sympathetic nod, and you really get it. You realize that now you are the one to carry on the family traditions. You know that you can't pick up the phone and ask how to fix that broken window or for your favorite recipe. But you also know that although life as you knew it is gone, there is an afterlife of your own to be lived.

The last few days, I have been happier than I can remember being in a long time. Maybe it's springtime with the rebirth of life all around us. Maybe it's allowing myself to living again without being afraid to make plans for my life because of the unknown. Whatever it is, I'm happy it's here.

Good old UW

My father had the most wonderful sister named Leola. No, no one seemed to know exactly where her name came from. But she was as kind and sweet as God makes them. I don't think in all the years that I knew her that she ever said a cross word about anyone.

Leola was a saint. Not only because she was so kind and giving, but because she was married to my uncle Woodrow.

Uncle Woodrow, or UW as we came to call him amongst the family later on, was one interesting character. He was raised very poor during the Great Depression, and like many others of his generation never lost that fear of losing everything. He had a few brothers, one of whom was a very successful businessman who convinced UW to go in on a deal he'd worked out on a little something that might make them a dime or two.

At that time, UW was working as a postman, so he really didn't have much money. But he took all that he had and invested it with his brother and ended up becoming a millionaire. They owned the first handful of Holiday Inn franchises in the state. Talk about dumb luck, huh?

At this point, UW gave up working as a postman and said he had the calling to become a minister. He turned out to be a fairly popular minister, no doubt largely in part to the fact that everyone adored my aunt Leola. If the church doors were open, she was there. If you were sick or had a death in the family, she was there. Everyone loved her.

Now, what y'all have to realize is that no one in my family knew that they were wealthy. As a matter of fact, they lived extremely frugally - so frugally that it made us almost sick to our stomachs later on after my aunt died. But I'll get to that in a bit.

He had some odd quirks that we still laugh about, one particular one being that he refused to let the postman deliver the mail to his house and had a post office box instead. Why, you ask? Because he thought the postman would try and steal his mail and all of his stock dividend checks that came in. Kind of ironic for someone who had been a postman himself, no?

My aunt got breast cancer and went through all the treatments - went into remission and then almost five years to the day after she went into remission she was diagnosed with lung cancer. She decided not to undergo treatments because the chemo from the first diagnosis was so horrible she said she'd rather die with dignity than fight something that was a losing battle. My sweet aunt died three months after I got married.

UW fell apart. Little did we know how much he had relied on my aunt for everything...and I mean everything. Every morning before he got up, she would go out and get his newspaper, cook him a full breakfast, and have it all ready for him. She took care of all of his clothes, the housekeeping, everything but the money and bills. That was purely his domain, and probably because he considered it "man's work" versus washing clothes which would definitely "women's work" in his eyes.

On her deathbed, Leola had asked my father to watch out for her "Woody" and take care of him. Sure, my father said. Poor guy. He had no idea of the mayhem that would occupy the next few years of his life. See, UW was in bad health when my aunt died - and he was so devoted to her that we figured he would be in a downhill race against time to the Pearly Gates.

Um, yeah, not so much.

*****

Next time, part 2 of the story. Y'all are gonna love this one.

The Turtle

Years ago, my mother decided that she wanted a minivan. And in her typical fashion, she and my father went down to the local car lot and got a very non-descript white Dodge minivan. We dubbed it The Turtle - it puttered along, wasn't going to break any speed records, but was definitely going to get you there.

Two years later, my father decided that my mother needed another new car, so he went to the Chrysler dealership and bought her something. Another white minivan. It was almost identical to The Turtle.

So Dad took over primary custody of The Turtle. He plastered the back with Army stickers and World War II veteran decals. He eventually put a hand brake in it when his leg went numb and he almost hit the gas pump at Sheetz. His service in World War II, and his frozen feet, were repaid by peripheral neuropathy that danced around like the Devil for years, coming and going.

When Dad eventually lost the ability to drive, The Turtle stayed parked in the garage mostly undriven because you could only stand wrestling yourself into the van with the hand brake in the way every so often - it would scrape your kneecaps if you weren't careful. As I discovered later on, my father would sneak out for a drive every now and then when my mother wasn't home. One weekend, my mother went up to the church to water the flower beds and my sister and I were lounging around the breakfast table soaking up some caffeine and generally having a lazy Saturday. My father was gamely loping around the house doing one of the few chores he was still able to do - gathering up the household trash.

"Dad, let me go with you up to the dump, okay?" said my sister. He disappeared out the door with the trash, and she continued sipping her coffee and reading the newspaper.

The next thing I knew, I saw The Turtle go flying down the driveway and veer left out of the driveway, headed to the dump. "Well, I think you probably should've gotten dressed a little faster, Kath. Dad just took off in The Turtle for the dump." She spewed coffee all over the table and ran out into the driveway...but The Turtle was long gone.

"Oh Jesus...Mom is gonna KILL YOU!" I moaned. And we both waited at the window for him to come back. We flipped a coin and decided if he wasn't back in ten minutes, I was going to go after him.

He came back. And the smile on his face was a mile wide. Mom never found out. We were saved from her wrath.

The Turtle was more than just a minivan. It was my Dad's last bit of freedom. A man who had traveled the world, his body now torn apart by cancer, clung to a little white minivan that could still take him places.

My mother sold The Turtle today. A local man with four kids bought it and was tickled to death to get a 15-year old van with only 70,000 miles on it. While he was at the DMV getting new tags, Joey and I scraped off my father's stickers and used GooGone to make sure all the adhesive was gone. My uncle had already taken off the hand brake, my mother had cleaned out the inside, and all that was left was an anonymous white minivan.

Thank you, Turtle. I hope you have a wonderful new home. And I hope you take them on wonderful new adventures. Little did they know what a gem they were getting.

Fart machine or whoopie cushion?

Today was the first day of school for Monkey Man at his new school. We elected to send him to the center-based gifted program that our county provides, despite the fact that he was going to have to change schools. On one hand, I am excited because he will get a much broader exposure to school subjects than the regular curriculum. On the other hand, any kind of change that involves his education makes me weak in the knees.

So far, so good. His biggest complaint was that the cafeteria was out of ketchup and he had to eat his cheeseburger without any. The horrors!

*****

I left home this morning feeling pretty good about things - new blouse, new bracelet (a very un-office-like bracelet covered in purple shiny stones), and hopes that Tuesday (or Monday, Part II - The Revenge) wouldn't be quite so bad. At one point while I was in Starbucks with every other human in the county, Joey called and left me a voice mail. I got back in the car and called him back without even checking the voice mail...then decided it would be a good idea to actually check my voice mail since I'd been pretty much ignoring everyone who calls me lately.

First message - Joey. Second message - hangup. Third message - Diana, my friend since third grade calling to check on me. I got kind of teary-eyed listening. Fourth message - Joey again. Okay, that was done...oh wait, there are eight saved messages?

I zipped through all until I got to number six.

"Hello Liz, it's Dad. Just calling to check in, just got back from physical therapy and wanted to let you know everything is going okay. Talk to you later. Bye."

I carefully saved it, then almost ran up on the curb since I was blinded by hot tears.

*****

I spent the rest of my work day moving piles around on my desk and surfing the internet looking for...well, I don't know. I think between the shock of the voice mail and the nerves of the first day of school, my brain went on total overload and decided it would be way more fun to just do nothing. Maybe have a Malibu and pineapple, but they frown on that at work.

I've always thought of myself as a fairly resilient person. Never one to get down for long, I try to find humor in the darkest times. I was the court jester of the nursing home, making the other patients and nurses laugh and trying to keep my dad smiling. I pulled out all the stops, just short of using a fart machine. I didn't think my mother would find that very amusing at all, since she always claimed my dad was the human equivalent of one.

The fart machine could really come in handy right now. The wind is out of my sails today.

But does Verizon have coverage in heaven?

I've come so close over and over during the past few months trying to decide if I was ever going to write again here or not. Sometimes, I feel like I'm definitely not one of the "cool kids" of blogging - I don't go to BlogHer, I don't have advertisements, I don't win any awards, I don't make thousands of dollars blogging. No, in the land of the Bloggers Who are Too Cool, I'm the band geek with my long hair caught in my braces. I've gotta go, my mom's here in her paneled 1977 station wagon to pick me up from practice, 'kay?

But you know, that's okay. I miss writing. Sometimes I need to just have a little verbal vomit even if I'm the only one who reads it or "gets it". I've come to the realization that it's okay to blog just for me...and hell, it's way cheaper than therapy.

I really could have used it these last few months, although reading about death and dying is probably not something most people want to do.

My sweet, precious hero - my Daddy - is gone.

The long and the short of it - the cancer got very aggressive. The medicine - or maybe the cancer - made him so sick he couldn't eat. He was up and walking up until the day before he went in the hospital. One week there, four weeks in the nursing home, and he slipped away.

The last three weeks have been hard as hell. At times, I find myself walking in circles, not sure what direction I'm headed in. I try to keep my shit together for Monkey Man and Joey, try to look like I have it all together at work, and then something hits me and I dissolve into a wretched, sobbing mess. I have really good days, and then I have really not-so-good days. Not really any middle ground there, huh?

That's okay, too. I have to be gentle with myself. It's not every day you lose the man who has been your hero since day one. I miss him like crazy. I catch myself, at times, thinking that I need to email him a funny joke or call him to ask how his yard is looking. And then I know, unless Verizon has cell phone coverage in Heaven, that's not going to be very easy.

It's not to say that the entire experience was without some moments of levity. We had a crazy cast of characters at the nursing home, we had all kinds of monkey wrenches thrown into the planning of the funeral, we had interesting family dynamics and not to be totally forgotten, the infamous incident of me trying to make the dog puke in my mother's front yard. Oh yes sir, there were some good times to be had.

So bear with me - I am hoping that sprinkled through here and there, I'll be able to recall some of the good and bad that happened and get it down so I don't forget. So Monkey will be able to read it one day when he's old enough to really understand. So that maybe my heart will feel a little better.

Now if you'll excuse me, tomorrow is the first day of school and I forgot to get a damn book cover for Monkey's math book. I need to get my shiz together and make a run to Office Max.

Hittin' the road before it hits me

I'm just on for a brief moment - I need to get some stuff thrown in the suitcase so I can hit the road with my sister in the morning.

We're headed down to my parents' for a few days. It's a long story - my dad is doing well, but my aunt with Alzheimer's has lost her caregiver so we need to put her in a facility ASAP. I'm hoping we can at least give my mom a little break since she's been dealing with everything by herself.

I can't decide if I can actually avoid eating a biscuit this weekend though. I'll report back.

Bubbling up

Today is a rainy, overcast day and I am home with a boy who is snotty and coughing but able to bust a move to his favorite song on the ESPN recaps. Not that I mind, because honestly a day off is just what the doctor ordered - a much-needed chance to actually sit down and collect myself from the craziness that has been the last few months.

First, thanks to everyone who emailed, called, sent Facebook messages. I am fine. Now.

I finally went to the doc about my chest pains (yet again) and after getting my ticker checked by a cardiologist it was determined that my heart is fine. My head, not so much. I had been going to an acupuncturist for a few months to see if it helped out my stress levels and honestly, it did help for a while but then I realized when she cut me back to every other week that I was back at square one again. It was time to get help.

So Dr. W put me on Celexa. So far, so good. Once I got past the first few weeks of feeling scatterbrained all the time I settled into what is probably close to the New Normal as I'm calling it. I still have stress but not nearly as bad - which honestly, I don't mind it as long as I'm not doubled over with pain or unable to function like I had been. Emotion is not a bad thing as long as it's not disabling me from living my life.

My dad - well, God bless him, he turned 87 on July 31st with a big birthday party. My brother Dave was unable to come from Seattle due to some heart issues that weren't resolved in time for him to safely fly, but the rest of us were there and it was a fantastic day. My siblings and I all gave speeches and we had lots of hugs and laughs and a few tears.

He is doing okay. It seems like the doctors put him on new medicines that work for a few weeks and then he is so sick from the side effects that it leaves him unable to function. Then he goes off the meds and is suddenly better again. The other weekend he asked me to read through the prospectus for a clinical trial that his doctor wanted him to participate in. Honestly, even at my age I don't think I would want to participate when there is zero guarantee that he wouldn't be in the placebo group...so I told him that I didn't think it was a good idea. He seemed relieved, and that's really all that matters to me. What good is quantity of life if the quality sucks ass? Yeah, not so much. Last week the doctor pulled yet another chemical rabbit out of his hat and started him on a new combination of medicines so it's yet another wait-and-see. His spirits are good though, and he hasn't lost his devilish sense of humor.

Work has been nuts. Three weeks ago I was assigned to a new project - well, let's just say that the old PA got pulled off because apparently she's too busy blowing one of the owners to actually do her job - and this project is a federal job for a facility that is for one of the three-letter agencies that I am not going to write out for fear of being Googled or whatever those creepy people do. Anyhow, she hadn't done jack for 3 months so guess who has been shoveling that shithole out? Yup, me. Good thing for the meds is all I have to say. So this is working for a different project manager and another team in addition to EPOD and Brandon. Egads.

Oh, and I joined a gym. Have been working out with a trainer and trying to whip my old ass into shape. I am really enjoying it, actually. You wouldn't believe how great it has been for stress management, although trying to keep up with a bunch of 20-somethings in one of the classes just about killed me the other day.

And lastly, I got some resolution in an estrangement with a friend that happened a few months ago. We're taking it slowly, little tiny baby steps. But what else can you do when someone texts you with "I miss my friend"? Especially when you miss them too. You pick up the phone, you say what you have to say, and you agree to try again.

Baby steps, baby steps. It seems as though I am learning to walk all over again, and trying desperately not to fall.

Wind in your hair

His movements now are slow and deliberate. There are days that he barely has the strength to get out of his favorite chair, and then there are days when he wants to go out for lunch and then walks laps around the house with his walker. He cannot bathe himself anymore, he can't shave himself, and can barely fix himself a bowl of cereal. His care has become all-consuming for my mother.

I had been gone to the Outer Banks with Joey and Monkey Man for a week - we got back Friday, I dumped some clean clothes into the suitcase and turned right back around and headed to my parents' house. I decided to drive our new toy down in the hopes that it would give my dad a chuckle at least for a moment.

When I arrived, he was dressed in an old stained t-shirt and shorts and looked like he hadn't shaven in days. He really didn't move around much at all. I sat by his side, talking to him about our vacation and joking about Monkey Man's latest exploits. He offered a few comments but was mostly silent. I worry when he is quiet.

Yesterday morning, he was dressed and had his hair combed when he came plodding out from his bedroom with the walker. He wanted to go out for breakfast, and he wanted my mom to follow us in her car. He ate sparingly, and started to look tired. I offered to take him back home so my mom could run errands in town unencumbered by worrying if he was bored or hot waiting for her.

I put the top down. And decided to go home via the highway so we could get a little wind in our hair. At one point I looked over and he had a faint smile on his face, looking so cool with his baseball cap on and his Ray Bans covering his eyes.

We got home, where he sat in the living room and talked to me about local gossip and family dynamics and money and all kinds of things. He walked at least 10 laps around the house, and then used some recumbent bicycle thing he got from the physical therapy place. He announced that he wanted to go to church on Sunday. I said fine, knowing that each day brings different challenges and that he probably wouldn't be up for going.

He never ceases to amaze me. He got up this morning, gave himself a shower and shave, and fixed himself a bowl of cereal. He's not dressed for church yet, but that will come since it's still early.

"Today is going to be a really good day!" he crowed as he plodded through the house.

I'll take all of the good days that I can get. I'm just glad I got to be here to see a few of them, because they are few and far between.

Don't ask, don't tell

For one magical week when I was about 5 or 6, my mother and brother Dave took off to Hawaii, leaving my father and I at home. I believe that my mother had an old friend that had moved there and she and my brother were heading there for a visit, but I'd have to ask her to confirm that.

Anyhow, my mother did the requisite cooking ahead of time, leaving us with Tupperware containers with spaghetti sauce and who knows what else. I don't believe that other than K rations, my father had ever done more than make himself a ham sandwich, so my mother's efforts were hugely wasted.

At that time, my favorite restaurant in the world was McDonald's. Even though my mother tried to convince me that the hamburgers were possibly made from kangaroo meat, there was nothing better in my little world than a good little hamburger with those onions sprinkled all over and a good smear of ketchup too. She would moan and roll her eyes every time I asked for McDonald's and just keep driving past, leaving me in the back seat of the car to fog my window up with my unrequited love for the dry little hamburgers.

But not my dad. He just wanted his little girl to be happy. And so every night that week, we sat outside of the Hackettstown McDonald's at the concrete tables and he had a Big Mac and I had my Happy Meal. And at the end, we always had sundaes. He would have a hot fudge sundae, and mine was strawberry. We would sit in silence, savoring not only the sweetness of the sundaes but the forbidden fruit that my mother would surely disapprove of.

"This is going to be our little secret, okay?" he grinned at me. "Don't tell your mother."

I'm not exactly sure what my mother said when she came home to find all of the Tupperware containers untouched.

*****

Fast forward to three years ago. My dad took Monkey Man somewhere in his white minivan that we have affectionately dubbed The Turtle. Later on that afternoon, they came back and I noticed Monkey Man carrying two small motorcycles.

"I'm not supposed to tell you about these. Grandpa got them for me from Toys R Us," he admitted sheepishly.

Some things never change. Not that I'm complaining.

*****

Every time I call my mother, it's something else. On Sunday, while my sister was visiting, Dad fell out of his chair in Sunday School and scared the bejeezus out of everyone there.

I feel the days slipping away.

Love hurts

Monkey Man's best friend in the whole entire planet, Quentin, has been totally enamored with this girl that lives in our neighborhood named Annie Grace.  Yes, that is her name - apparently all of the girls in that family have "double first" names.  Kind of sickening but whatever.  The three kids were in the same kindergarten class last year and have also been classmates at The World's Most Expensive Preschool for several years.  This love runs deep, deeper than the ocean and the mountain of tuition debt.

Last fall, Monkey Man scored an exclusive, private invitation to Annie Grace's birthday party at her house - complete with petting zoo.  And a zip line running through the backyard.  All the pizza and sugar you could snarf.  And he was one of three boys invited among something ridiculous like 20 girls, so it was a little bachelor's paradise.  But when Quentin's mom Jay found out, she begged me NOT to tell Quentin about it because he hadn't been invited to the party and would be just heartbroken.  

And at this point, I realized that sometimes, obsession over Kindergarten Love can go a little overboard.  But whatever.  

This year, Annie Grace is back in Monkey Man's room again while Quentin was sent packing to another class.  But his love remained steadfast, with Monkey Man coming home with sporadic reports of smooching on the playground and declarations of love forever, or at least until recess was over.  

Apparently, though, the love is gone.  Finished.  Over.

Two weeks ago, we ended up at the local pizza joint one night after baseball and Quentin's family happened to be there.  He came over to sit with us while we all waited for our food to arrive, so I asked him how school was going and your typical parental grilling questions.  "So...how is Annie Grace, is she still your girlfriend?" I asked.

"Well, Miss Liz," said Quentin sadly, "things aren't going so good.  Annie Grace tried to kick me in the nuts the other day on the playground and now she's not talking to me."

I just about fell out of the booth.  It was all I could do to keep from laughing.  Although a huge part of me wanted to take Quentin to the side and explain that this would probably not be the first time, nor the last time, that a female would attempt to have him by the balls - either literally or figuratively.  But I figured that was probably a conversation for another time.

Fast forward to last Friday, when I was chaperoning Monkey Man's class to the state park on a field trip.  I drove him to school since I was asked suckered into riding the bus with the class, and on the way to school I asked him who his friends were, who he liked playing with, which of the girls he liked and didn't like....

"So Monkey Man, which of the girls do you not like playing with on the playground?"  I asked.

"Annie Grace," he said squinching up his face.  "She tried to kick Quentin in the nuts the other day, and he's my peep.  I've got his back!"  

And they learn so early.  Bro's before ho's.  

*****

I could apologize for being absent again, but it's kind of pointless.  About two weeks ago, we found out that my dad's cancer has spread into his bones now.  Leg, spine, ribcage.  Not unexpected, but still hard to take.  I did make it down to see him two weeks ago and he doesn't look good at all...my sister and I suspect that he is much sicker than my parents are telling me.

Add to this some other issues that I'm not going to get into here but have been weighing heavily on my heart, and I have been just trying to put one foot in front of the other and keep myself going.  It's hard, though.  I'm realizing more than ever that maybe there isn't much I can control in my life anymore.  The pieces are all falling around me and I swear if it wasn't for the people that I love, I wouldn't make it through this with one bit of sanity left.  The sadness of it all is overwhelming me at times, yet I realize that life does go on and that I have some amazing people that I share it with - family, friends, coworkers. 

And for that, I am grateful.  Because even when life kicks you in the nuts, a little love can make it all better.

Doing the right thing

I haven't talked to my parents or my sister since the Easter Monday Massacre of 2009.  When my wounds are still fresh, I prefer to lick them versus having someone pouring salt into them.  

It amazes me that still after the past few years and the various blowups we've had about my family making plans and not inviting us to join in that even if I am actively involved in planning it out, somehow I still get fucked.  Hard.  

I can't tell y'all how many times my parents have come up here to visit and I always get the lament from them or from my sister about how I work "all the time" and "never take time off" when they come.  So this time, I specifically took Easter Monday off.  Kept Monkey Man out of school so he could spend some time with his beloved Grandpa.  My sister and I made plans to take my parents on a little sightseeing trip through the city that could be done via car instead of trying to make my dad walk too much.  I was so excited to spend the day with them that I could barely sleep the night before.

Oddly enough, though, when Monkey Man and I arrived at my sister's house that morning, we discovered that my brother-in-law had absconded with my dad to the Rivah to check on his boat that was currently being worked on.  And they would be gone all day.

So we took my mom shopping for about an hour...took her to lunch...and then we were summarily dismissed.  Told to go home.  I finally raised enough fuss with my sister that she grudgingly admitted to meeting us halfway for dinner somewhere that evening so at least Monkey Man could spend some time with my dad.  Right?

By the time dinner rolled around, I was so angry and bitter that I let my venom come spewing out.  My dad asked me how my "day off" was and I let him know in no uncertain terms that I was sorry to have wasted a day off specifically to spend with him and have him disappear for the day.  It sucked.  And I'm not sure what's worse, the fact that I was a bitch to my father who has cancer, or the fact that no one even acknowledged my feelings whatsoever.  It was like everyone shrugged and went back to their microgreens.

Since then, I've been incommunicado with my family.  It is just so frustrating to keep trying to do the right thing over and over again just to be shut down.  

Last night, the phone rang and it was my mom.  The conversation was cordial but the tension was obviously there.  She finally put my dad on the phone and I figured out why they called.  While I was busy feeling sorry for myself, my dad had been to the oncologist and yesterday was a day filled with a bone scan to see how far the cancer has spread.  

My dad was fairly upbeat.  He has already told the doctor that he definitely doesn't want to do chemo.  The doctor said it was fine, but he has a few medications that he wants to try to see if he can slow the cancer down.  Dad has already ordered the prescriptions and they should be here next week.  They will find out the results of the bone scan in about a week too.  He feels pretty good about his decision and feels fairly good overall.

And that's when I finally said what I've been wanting to say to him for months now.  

I gave him my blessing to do whatever he chooses to do.  I know he can't be on this earth forever.  I can't force someone to go through hellish treatments when I don't have to go through them myself.  I don't want him to suffer, but I don't want him to do anything extraordinary just to get an extra month or two.  I want him to be happy and at peace with whatever he decides.  In other words, I love him enough to let him go.

His voice cracked.  He thanked me and said it meant more to him than I would ever know.

I hung up the phone and cried, big snotty tears.  Because sometimes doing the right thing is harder than you have ever imagined.

The recap

It's been a long but fun day today. We hired a photographer to come to our house to take some cool black & white "lifestyle portraits" of us as a family, she was here about three hours and I am wiped out. Trying to look skinny takes a lot of energy.

Amber, the photographer, likes to take pictures of you doing things that you normally do. They're not really posed pictures, which I like. So Monkey Man and I made brownies together, he read a book to Joey and me, the boys played video games, we worked on homework, and one specific thing I had asked her for was to document his absolute obsession of all things football. We still had some daylight left, so we threw on our Hokies jerseys (well, my shirt wasn't a real jersey but a t-shirt that kind of looks like a jersey) and headed outside to have some fun.

It was going great. We were all laughing and having a great time, but the whole time I was very self-conscious because my shirt was a little on the snug side and all I could think about was "does this look horrible or what?" I was so distracted that I never noticed....

WHAM. The football. Right in my eye.

"I think we're done," said Amber, as my eye started to swell. Ouch. Good thing.

*****

EPOD has had a miserable cold for the past few days. And usually, when he's sick, he develops this habit of picking on us mercilessly. Finally, yesterday, I had just about run out of my goodwill about being the brunt of his wrath and asked him if he was going to be mean all week.

"But it makes me feeeeel better..." he whined. Oh, yeah, I forgot - it's all about YOU.

On the other side, he actually broke down and got a physical done over a week ago and can't get anyone at the doctor's office to call and give him his results. As in, they left him a message, he calls back and can't get a human, then they leave another message for him to call in, then he calls back and can't talk to anyone...you get the picture. We had a health fair back in the summertime and his numbers were so bad that I am surprised he hasn't stroked out at his desk with all the stress he's been under anyway.

*****

Cat Door has been working with Drunk Al for the past few weeks with one goal. For Al to make one good decision a day.

On Monday, Al showed up for work drunk as a skunk. Like drank two 40-oz. beers at 5 AM and showed up for work at 6 AM. So Cat Door told him that he would take him along, but he wasn't allowed to get on the ladder until he sobered up. Around 10 AM, Al seemed like he was okay so he started to climb up the ladder...slipped on the second rung...and fell into the biggest mud puddle ever. He got up, brushed the mud off of his face, and announced that he wanted to go home. "Um, hell no," said Cat Door. "You showed up drunk, you've done nothing but stand around all day, and now you want me to take you home? Forget it." So Al finished up the day, spending most of it earthbound and just running siding pieces back and forth.

"Maybe you are a little overambitious," I told him. "Maybe one good decision a WEEK would be a good place to start?"

He just rolled his eyes. His heart is in the right place, but I'm wondering how long he's going to limp along with Al before he either finds Al dead one morning, or Al finally pisses him off to the point of no return.

*****

Joey's Rotary club party was last Friday night. I ended up leaving my office party really early so I could get home and get gussied up to go. Two years ago, they moved it from the ghetto country club (which to call it a country club is a huge stretch) to a very nice private banquet facility about 30 minutes from our house. The food is fantastic and we usually have a pretty good time.

I actually purchased a new dress to wear to my company's fancy Christmas party this year, and I had the idea that Friday would be a good test drive for the dress - I'd have over a week to get it cleaned in time to wear to my company party. But when I got home, Joey had kind of already decided that he didn't want to get really dressed up so the party dress went back in the closet and I picked out another dress.

The dress I ended up wearing was one I bought to wear to a wedding last winter - it is burgundy and very pretty - however, it's pretty low-cut. I always make sure I wear a great bra with it to keep the puppies in line, so it's not like I'm going to fall out of the thing.

What I forget about Rotary is that most of the men are in their 60's, very wealthy, and apparently pretty horny. I spent most of the night having the codgers standing in line and asking me to have my picture taken with them. And inevitably, they would put their arm around my shoulder and squeeeeeeze just so, making the sistahs a little more pronounced than they should've been. And, in one super-ballsy move, one of the members actually gave me his business card and told me he'd like to take me to lunch sometime so he could get to know me better. Is that what the old people are calling it nowadays? Geez.

I guess the bright part would be that if anything should happen to Joey, there are a lot of old, rich, horny dudes out there just waiting for me.

Ew, I think I just threw up a little.

*****

My dad. Well, he seems to be doing about the same.

The week after Thanksgiving, I got a frantic phone call from my sister that my dad was having problems with his bladder leaking, so he was headed to the doctor to have some tests run including a scope of his bladder. All I could think of was that the cancer had moved into his bladder, probably causing this loss of control.

So on my birthday, he went in for the tests and they didn't find anything in his bladder. The doctor thinks that he should probably cut back on iced tea and drink only like 3 glasses a day versus, oh, 3 gallons a day. No, he doesn't drink that much, but it seems like maybe he's drinking way too much. Then within a few days, he fessed up that he's getting up every two hours at night to pee...so my sister and I are thinking that maybe it's a UTI now that was stirred up from the scope.

My sister and I are headed down to visit my parents for four days after Christmas. Joey will bring Monkey Man down for a few days too and squeeze an in-law trip in there as well. I think a lot of the trip will be trying to pin my parents down, because I have a sneaking suspicion that they are candy-coating a lot of this because they don't want to worry us.

He has been in great spirits, however - and is so excited that we are coming that he says it's all he can think about. That makes me feel great!

*****

As for me, well, I've been having chest pains off and on for the past year. The past few weeks have been bad - bad to the point that the day I decorated the Christmas tree I had to stop everything and just SIT. I never do that.

I finally did what I've been needing to do - I booked an appointment with a REAL doctor versus the urgent care place. I chose Cat Door's doctor since he and the Mrs. have been ecstatically happy with this doctor and I think the doc has done a great job working with Cat Door's low blood pressure problems. Not to mention he will do house calls. And he's my age, so no chance of him retiring any time soon.

My first appointment is Christmas Eve - a "sick" appointment so they can "find something" that will allow my insurance to pay for a full physical at no extra charge to me other than a co-pay. I could rant and rave about the fact that it's insane for the insurance company to not let me have a stinking physical (even though the last time I had one was when I was 18) without there being something wrong...but I won't.

In the meantime, the strangest thing is that since I made the appointment I have only had one or two small twinges. I know it's stress, but I'd feel better having someone tell me who might actually be qualified to make a diagnosis. And if nothing else, it's a chance to build a relationship with a doctor which is something I've needed for a long, long time.

*****

Have a great Thursday. I have GOT to finish up my Christmas stuff and have no freaking idea what I'm going to get my mother, so pray for me. Ehhh.

Hard day

Actually, it's been a hard week.

There haven't been many moments in the past week that I haven't felt like I was on the verge of tears. It's always there, hanging right behind my eyelids and stinging to the point that I almost want to leak out a few tears just to get rid of the pressure. As everyone reveled in their Thanksgiving tales of family dysfunction, I did my usual polite nodding and smiling, even letting out a laugh or two just because that's what I do. I'm supposed to be the funny one, the one who can crack a joke at a funeral and have it be entirely appropriate.

So, how was your Thanksgiving? they would ask.

Eh, not so good. And then that infernal burning in my eyes would start.

Isn't there anything that can be done? they would inevitably ask.

No. There's nothing. And then I would return to picking at my food or shuffling papers on my desk. Anything to keep busy, to keep my brain from drowning in misery.

I put in some vacation requests today with EPOD to take some time off between Christmas and New Year's. My plan is to go be with my parents for a few days. EPOD generously mentioned that if I got there and felt like I needed more time, then I can just call and let him know.

You need to do what's best for your dad, you know.

Yes, I know.

How long do you think he has?

I don't know. We don't know. It could be days, weeks, or months. We don't know, and maybe that's the worst part.

Burning. More burning.

Finally, today, I spent most of the day feeling like I could cry at any moment. And of course, in his typical fashion, Cat Door reemerged after a long Thanksgiving trip to visit family.

This week marks the fifth anniversary of his mom's death. They were very close. She was the emotional touchstone of the family. Her death changed him in ways that I can't even describe.

No one gave hugs like my mom, she would hug you for like twenty minutes and it would feel like forever, he told me, choking up.

Does it ever get any easier? I asked.

No. There are times when I'll be listening to the radio and one of her favorite songs will come on and I'll just start to cry. I miss being able to call her and hear her laugh. I miss her every damn day.

Just hearing him and the deep ache in his voice finally made the burning stop. My tears flowed freely for the first time since last week. I sobbed like a little girl and finally after I regained my composure and we finished up the conversation, I went into my room and buried my head in my pillow and just let the fiery tears stream down my face into my pillow.

My sister called a while ago and said that my dad is supposed to go on Friday to have a battery of tests done because his bladder is leaking. I suspect it's related to the cancer, but we won't know for sure until the test results are back.

I'm scared. I know it's going to end, I just can't face my own grief right now. I'm scared of the unknown. I'm scared that he's not going to make it until Christmas.

I hope I'm wrong.

Down

I'm not really sure how to even start.

Earlier this summer, we discovered that my dad's prostate cancer was getting worse. There are only so many treatment options available, and he is on the last option before chemo becomes necessary. The doctor gave him new meds that are supposed to supplement this hormone treatment he's been taking for the past few years with the hope that it would be kind of like a booster to the hormone therapy.

My dad has decided to stop taking the new meds. He's done.

The side effects of the new meds were hard for him. He looks terrible. He has hives from head-to-toe. He spends most of his time dozing off in the chair in front of the television. His quality of life has really gone down since he started taking the meds. So I get it. I really do.

It doesn't make it any easier, though. Now we just watch. And wait.

I just want my daddy to be better. And I know it's not possible.

It's hard.

Texas - part one

Since we had to depart the RVA at the ungodly hour of 6:40 AM on Thursday, we got up at the buttcrack of...well, it wasn't even dawn yet. It was damn early, y'all.

The trip down was relatively uneventful. Heck, we breezed right on through and arrived in Dallas, picked up our rental car (by the way, if you ever fly into DFW airport I highly recommend Hertz - they had us in our car in under 10 minutes thanks to me pre-reserving online) and hit the road. I was almost pinching myself because, well, we had arrived on time. With our luggage. It was almost too good to be true.

We headed on toward Abilene and stopped for lunch at a barbeque place. It was kind of an odd setup, it was almost like cafeteria-style and then you sat wherever you wanted. The food was pretty good, but halfway through our meal I suddenly had to go to the restroom. As in, "I haven't peed in what feels like three days and no, I can't wait." Or as in, "I am three years old and wait until just before I pee my pants before I let anyone know I need to go, thus ensuing in a mad dash to the restroom." And since it was that certain time of the month, I decided to allow myself a little privacy and not ask Monkey Man if he wanted to go.

I'm sure you know how this goes. The very instant I'm ensconced in my stall in the ladies' room, Monkey Man announces that he has to go. Right. Now. And no, he can't wait. So Joey hustles him into the men's room to do his duty.

I come out of the restroom, probably two gallons lighter, and as I walk to our table I notice the strangest thing. There's someone sitting there. At our table. With new trays of food. Oh, I figured maybe the boys had finished up their food and were waiting outside for me - so I went out into the lobby of the restaurant to look for them. No boys. Then, I spy them coming out of the men's room and the look on Joey's face when he realized that some lady was sitting at our table was one of total shock. All of our stuff was gone. Including Joey's prescription glasses, which he had put on the tray.

A few panicky moments later, I found a managerial-looking person and asked if they could check and see if Joey's glasses were back in the kitchen. He sheepishly emerged and apologized, but there was no offer of replacing our lunches.

Note to self: Do not attempt to leave boys alone at tables again in hopes of having privacy in the bathroom. Murphy's Law will mean that one of the two will have to Go Right Now and then you could potentially have your food removed.

Meanwhile, I received a text from my nephew Steve who had decided when he originally booked the trip that he was going to fly directly into Abilene. He was stuck at the airport - had been there for 45 minutes - waiting on my sister to come pick him up. I texted back - "If you're still there in two hours, call me and we'll just swing by and get you when we pass by the airport." Luckily, I think they showed up shortly after so he wasn't stuck in Cowtown's airport waiting on us to finally make it there.

We finally got into Abilene around 3 PM and after a quick shower we were ready to go. The rest of the famn damily showed up shortly after and we all headed out to a really good dinner at the Lytle Cattle & Land Company. Lots of deep-fried stuff and some delicious steaks. Oh, and these things called swirls - margaritas with sangria swirled in there. Yeah, I might as well admit it here that I got more than a little tipsy at dinner. My mom was there, so sue me. I need to drink heavily just to block her bitching out.

On this trip were my parents, my sister Kathie and her husband Richard, my brother Dave and his wife Karen, my nephew Steve, and the three of us. Ten total. The family dynamics are really interesting - I'd say my sister and I are probably tied (although she probably would edge me out) as my dad's favorites, whereas my brother Dave is undeniably my mom's favorite. The dude can do no wrong as far as my mother is concerned. Like we had to sit there at dinner and listen to what a good baby my brother was. As far as I know, it wasn't like I was a total hellion or anything, and the bastard tortured me incessantly for years. Ask me sometime about my toilet phobia and you'll see how mean he was.

Friday was museum day. We all trucked on over to the museum and spent a few hours looking at the exhibits. It's the only museum of its kind in the country, and when we were there seven years ago it was still really not finished. I guess it's always going to be a work in progress as people donate more items, but they have really done a nice job. Monkey Man thoroughly enjoyed seeing the halftracks like my dad drove and all the guns and military paraphenalia.

One part I wasn't really prepared for was the room about the POW camps and the concentration camps. I had seen a short documentary recently about the division's part in freeing many camps around Landsberg, Germany, and it brought me to tears with all of the suffering the detainees faced. Well, they had that same documentary playing on an endless loop and I guess my dad hadn't ever seen it, because I spied him sitting there watching and then he waved Monkey Man to come over and watch it with him. Yikes! I ixnayed that immediately. I walked him around and showed him the still photos and tried the best I could to explain in terms that a 6-year-old could possibly understand what horrible atrocities had been committed. I'm not sure he understood completely, but I felt okay about it.

As I walked around that room, my nephew came over to ask me some questions and soon we were approached by a tiny little man, using a walker and an oxygen tank. He was wearing a military-style jacket covered in medals. I asked him if he had been in the 12th Armored Division and he said no - he was a paratrooper in the 82nd Airborne. As in he parachuted in on D-Day. He proudly showed me all of his medals as his wife stood by smiling and patting him on the back. He had received 26 medals and citations for his service - and although he didn't belong to the 12th AD, he lives in Abilene and had asked his wife to bring him over when he heard the 12th guys were going to be in town for the weekend. He wanted to see "his brothers". I asked him if he was scared to jump out of an airplane, and he replied, "There's a secret to it. Don't jump down, jump out. Then your head gets right."

"He is my third husband," said his wife," We just celebrated our seventh anniversary. We met when I was 70 and he was 80. He might be my third one, but he's the sweetest one yet!" My heart just melted.

As he walked away with his walker, I almost started bawling. Hearing the stories, seeing all the pictures, imagining what these men - who were boys then - experienced, was almost more than my heart could take.

It's easy to forget in this time of all media, all the time, how primitive the intelligence was at that time. Like the whole concentration camp thing - my dad told me (and I read recently in a book about the division) that they knew nothing about their existence, they had stumbled across them in their journey across Germany and were stunned at what they found. "It was just one day, but it was a day that has hung in my mind almost every day," he told me quietly. "That day, we got word that there was a farmhouse nearby with some Germans holed up in it. Another guy and I were sent in there to see what was going on, and we discovered a civilian couple hosting a dinner for some Nazi troops. People were starving less than a mile away, and they were eating like kings. So we took them outside, and...." His voice faded and his eyes watered. I knew what happened.

So it was a really emotional day. Listening to all of my dad's peers talking - telling what they can still remember as the memories are starting to slip away. Watching my dad seem to slip far into thought at times, like he was being transported back to 1945 as he trudged through the snow.

Another day, another birthday

Today was Joey's 39th birthday. Yes, he is really 39 - not 40 and trying to hide it. This is the glorious day I have every year where I get to be younger for a whopping four months, and I enjoy the hell out of it.

We just rolled in the door from spending the evening with David, Yvonne, and their daughter downtown where we ate, drank, laughed, and played pool. It was fun, and just the kind of birthday that Joey likes. Whereas I like having a big party and having all of the attention focused on me (because as we all know, it's all about ME) - he prefers something low key. Really low key. So other than a Virginia Tech birthday cake, we kept it just the way he likes it.

Happy birthday, babe. I love you more than I can ever say.

*****

The weekend visit to the 'rents went extremely well, and I came back exhausted. Those old people tried to run us into the ground!

The highlight of the weekend was my dad taking us to the tank museum. Since he is the veteran of World War II, Korea and Vietnam, he has lots of stories and kept us enraptured the whole time. I couldn't even begin to try and retell any of the stories, but usually they are of the nature that make the Hogan's Heroes crew look like a bunch of brainiacs. He was hilarious.

The next blood test is six weeks from now, and we'll see what the status of the cancer is. At least we'll get through the Texas trip before we have to go through that. He looked good, though, and my poor mom actually got caught up on some sleep. I think it helped her knowing there was another adult (and light sleeper) in the house in case something happened. Either that or she was just that worn out, because one morning she slept in until 8 AM. Seriously, I have NEVER seen my mother sleep past 6 AM in my entire life, so I was starting to wonder if I needed to check her pulse.

On a sad note, my aunt - my mother's sister who lives next door and our family was estranged from for 18 years before they made up last year - has Alzheimer's. It has come on so strong and so fast that she doesn't know who I am anymore, even though she did just a few months ago. And in all ironies, my mom is having to care for her. Kind of bittersweet. I'm just glad we got to talk again before her mind started to go.

And I had a great visit with my cousin, Laura. She lives right across the road from my parents and we don't always get to see each other, but when we do it's like no time has passed at all. We got to looking up classmates on Facebook and giggling just like we did back in high school. It was freaking awesome.

*****

This week is shaping up to be a ball-buster. I'm hoping to post every day, but if I miss a day please don't flog me too much. And I'm still trying to think of a good nickname for my new team member, but the right one hasn't come up yet. I have an idea, but I need to think on it a few days.

Happy birthday, daddy

Today is my daddy's 86th birthday.

Holy cow, that's old. I guess the good news is that in the eyes of Monkey Man, Grandpa isn't as old as John McCain. Ahem.

I guess it's all a matter of perspective.

Tomorrow, Monkey Man and I hit the road on a mission to go visit my parents for the weekend. As much as I am dreading the drive by myself (and no, it isn't very far but I am a spoiled wimp who hates to drive there by my lonesome), my parents are so damn excited that they can barely stand it. I'm just hoping their air conditioning is set a little lower than the balmy 80 degrees that they prefer. If it gets bad enough, there is a Marriott Courtyard about 3 miles away that I'll gladly check in to. There is no point in showering just to be soaked in sweat trying to dry your hair, right?

When I called this morning to wish him a happy birthday, he fessed up that my mom had woken him up at 7 AM to clean the damn garage. Know why he did it? She promised to take him for pizza for his birthday. The man loves him some pizza. I guess I know his currency now, huh?

There are a lot of things about my dad that I admire. And that I'm thankful for. The biggest thing is that I inherited his personality and the ability to find humor even when things aren't so good. Oh, and also the propensity to always be worried about where our next meal is coming from. We obviously have our priorities completely straight.

Happy birthday, Dad. You mean the world to me.

Oops

I just realized with some horror that it's been exactly a whole freaking month since I posted.

Sorry.

It's been a little bit of a whirlwind around these parts. We took a quick vacation to the beach, we had a Forced-In-Law-Interaction (This Time Without Yeast Rolls!), we ended up with a colony of bees living underneath the siding of our house, and work has been truly awful. My motto of the last few weeks has been, "Encumbered by idiots, I press onward!"

How true.

Chachi's last day is next Friday and my palms sweat just thinking about it. We have a new team member - name yet to be determined - and while he's a nice guy he's not exactly a ball of fire. I think we are totally screwed.

So we have been so freaking busy at work that I basically eat, work, and collapse. Lather, rinse, repeat. Some life, huh?

I have also been wrapping my brain around some news we got about my dad. The new treatment isn't working and the doctor wants him to see an oncologist. And my dad has decided he's done all that he wants to do.

I've been preparing for this for the last two years. Since Dad got so sick, I've felt really fortunate that we've gotten some extra time with him. It's like the big bonus round. But it's also been living each day waiting for the other shoe to drop. And right now, it's dangling by a shoelace. I'm okay with it. I went back and re-read the advice that Cat Door gave me when my dad was in the coma, and I've come to realize that I've been embracing the eventuality of Dad's death this whole time. And if he's okay with it, I am too. And we have no idea how long he has - it could be days, months, or years. So there's that.

It's hard for me to write when I feel like my insides are a pressure cooker. Hence my absence for the past month. I feel like I'm coming out on the other side, though. Maybe.

So if you're still hanging around, thanks. Sorry I haven't been able to be an active participant, but I really wasn't ready to share this with anyone yet. But I think my heart is healing a little bit. And I'm starting to realize how much I miss writing.

Still kicking

I haven't been this sick in a long time.

Way back when Monkey Man was almost two, I got strep throat. Fever of 103 and over for about five days. I was barely able to get to the bathroom and back and stayed in bed the entire time. But when it was over, it was over.

This time, it's like this horrible congestion and hacking cough that has made me wonder what miracle has kept me from breaking a rib. And I can't sleep, which you know totally helps the healing process.

This winter has kicked my ass. This is my third round of antibiotics since February and I'm wondering if they're even doing any good. I'm shacking up in the guest room for now since it's cool, quiet, and I don't wake anyone up with my tossing, turning, hacking and wheezing. I'm thoughtful that way.

*****

On a good note, I came home today to find that the tile people came today (a day early!) and grouted the floor. It looks awesome. They will be back tomorrow to touch up a few areas and then they will be out of my life forever. I've never been so happy to break up with someone.

Then there's the shower. New gaskets and such have been ordered and they will come sometime next week. Then the painter comes next Friday.

And then we might, MIGHT be done. The anticipation is almost killing me.

*****

On Monday night, I called my parents house to find my dad home alone. It's very rare that I get to talk to him for longer than two seconds so we had a nice conversation without my mother interjecting her opinion constantly.

The big news in their neck of the woods is that they saw some people out measuring the lot behind theirs last week.

The backstory here is that my parents live on part of what was my mother's homeplace. My grandfather was a tobacco farmer, and when he passed away all of his daughters (including my mom) inherited the farm. They held onto it for about ten years and then decided to divide it up into parcels and sell it at auction. I remember it well because we were about a year from moving back here from New Jersey and my parents had decided to buy the lot between their house and my aunt's house so that no one could buy it and build there...it was a huge scandal at the time because my parents, The Carpetbaggers, paid something like $14,000 for this one-acre lot which of course no one in that area had ever heard of such a thing. Damn those carpetbaggers!

Anyhow, at that time there was an odd two-acre pie-shaped lot located directly behind my parents' house that runs from the back corner of their lot, up along side the lot they bought, and then to my aunt's house before it ends at the side road. And it was purchased by a church with an African-American congregation with plans to build themselves a beautiful church.

Well, that was over 20 years ago and they've never been able to build anything. Last year they had someone come out and dig a well, the well digger got down 60 feet and the church ran out of money so they had to quit with no water. So to have these two people - white people - out there measuring things the other day got the neighbor all in an uproar.

The Redneck Asshole that lives on the other side of the lot came pounding on my parents' door the other night. He told my dad that he had been out there to talk to those two "white fellers" and that they told him they were an engineer and architect out there looking at the lot to see what they could design for the church. Redneck Asshole told my dad that he wanted to rally all of the other neighbors to go up to the county seat and protest the church being built there.

"I don't know why you would want to do that," my dad said. "I think it would be nice to have a church there."

"Well," said Redneck Asshole, "I don't know that we want people like that building one of their churches there."

So my dad excused himself and shut the door.

"In all truth," my dad told me, "I'd rather have them build a church there than end up with a big redneck like him moving in back there."

See why I love my dad?

Anyhow, it will be interesting to see what happens. In my own semi-professional opinion, I don't think the lot is big enough to build a church that would have enough occupancy, required parking spaces, utility easements, etc. But we'll see.

*****

Off to rest. Joey is off at some bullshit business dinner (gee, thanks hon for all the advanced notice since I was feeling all chipper and everything) so I better wrangle Monkey Man into the tub before I'm too tired.

Age isn't just a number

Today marks the first time I talked to my mother since Christmas Day when she was such a beeyotch. She was back to her normal, somewhat cheerful self today. I did pry out of her that she had a bad week with my dad last week - I think sometimes being the sole caretaker for him is a huge weight that she has a hard time dealing with. Keep in mind, my dad is 85 and had a major life-threatening illness last year and has made a pretty remarkable recovery. What people don't realize, though, is that prior to that my dad was probably in the physical condition of a 65-year old. Simply amazing, he would work circles around younger men. Now, he's definitely more in the shape of someone in their 80's. My mom, however, just turned 77 and is in pretty amazing shape as well. And I think sometimes she has a hard time reconciling that my dad is really aging faster than she is at this point, and she will probably end up being his caregiver.

Age difference between spouses really doesn't seem like much when you're younger. Cat Door is a good seven years younger than the Mrs., and he'll be the first to tell you that when they met and he was 25 and she was 32, there really wasn't any issue there. Now that he's 41 and she's 48 - and she suffers from reumatoid arthritis along with some other health issues - I think the age disparity is a lot more noticable and it has put some strain on their marriage. Unfortunately for my dad, his health woes from last year have really worn on his physical condition so even though he wants to keep going all the time, he just can't. And my mom, who still wants to travel and be on the go all the time, is having to face the facts that she just can't do it anymore and take care of my dad.

That's got to be hard for my mom. She's not a normally very nurturing person. I always used to joke with my friends that even when I was really sick and living at home, I still had to take care of myself. She wasn't someone that coddled us in any way - as long as your grades were good and you weren't bleeding or dead, she was pretty much doing her own thing. She was never physically affectionate, and even at the age of 38 I can't remember my mom saying "I love you" even one time to me. She's just not that type of person.

About two years ago, I got a package from her for Monkey Man. She likes to send him coloring books and books to read and little special things she finds. And in that package, I found a pack of Post-It notes in which she'd spelled out "I love you" on the little pages. I saved that and put it in his little keepsake box, because it's not like she'll ever actually tell him that. But I want him to know that even though Nana doesn't say it, she does.

It's made it quite a challenge for me as a mom. In some ways, I way overcompensate for my mom's lack of warmth by almost smothering Monkey Man sometimes. In other ways, I find myself sometimes having to do a self-check and make sure I actually spend time with him doing kid things versus depending on him to entertain himself while I'm doing other things. Because that's what my mom used to do. She was always working on things around the house, studying for her college classes, or whatever else she was into at the time and I was left to pretty much entertain myself. It was good in some ways because I became fairly self-reliant, but in other ways I really missed having that June Cleaver-type mom. It's not that she didn't do things for me, but it usually involved her carting me to and from my extracurricular activities so a lot of our quality time was spent in the car. Which honestly isn't something I remember with a lot of fondness.

So anyway, I guess my point in all this is that I'm kind of wondering what is going on back home. My mom isn't normally very forthcoming with information so it could potentially be pretty bad and stressful for her. I guess I'm going to have to take a weekend and make a solo trip down there to assess the situation. Not only is my mom having to take care of my dad, but her sister lives next door and has been getting increasingly forgetful and dependent on my mom to run her around and such. One of my mom's other sisters had moved in with her for a few months but she ended up having to go back to Maryland and we're not sure if she's coming back or not...she had been such a help to my mom that I think her departure has put my Aunt Hazel back on my mom's plate again. So maybe we can come up with some solutions as far as getting some help for my mom.

It's times like these when it makes it hard to realize that I'm going to have to be ready to assume the parent role of my own parents. It's been a long road of recovery for my dad, and even though he's doing well it's not over by a long shot.