Steam Whistle, Come to the Yard for a Bitchfest

I’m frustrated. On the cusp of going on our 3 week road trip, the plans I had made to care for my mother in my absence have been cancelled. I tried to iron out the details but it seems that Alzheimers is just going around and my aunt, who was supposed to come down and stay for a week, won’t be able to because her husband can’t care for HIS mother with alzheimer’s. So, she has to stay. They’re in the midst of trying to get her into a memory care facility and having a tough time.

There was a statement she made to me in our text exchange that annoyed me. She said “I feel really bad but my husband needs my help.” And I wanted to reply, as does mine. Y’know, the one that is dying? Anyway… it would have been petty and the thing is I understand the stress that comes with caring for someone with “mush brain.”

I don’t say that to be insensitive. Don’t get me wrong, it is. I use it as a way of getting past my frustration. The whole situation (now and the broader picture) makes me angry. I’m at a loss. And this little hiccup… It makes me more angry. Because, this grown ass man can’t care for his mother (he’s in his late 60’s by the way) but I’m supposed to?

I’m in my head about certian expectations, which I perceive as being projected onto me from my family. No one has ever said a single word to allude to such, yet I still feel that way. I hate it. I want to be rid of my family. I genuinely find no joy with or in them, and in the end they have just hurt me. Primarily because of how they have treated or ignored my mother.

My mom has this strong belief in “family.” She would do anything, for any one of them, at the drop of hat. That is not an exaggeration. One time my cousin’s EX-wife called up to ask if my mom would be willing to pick up a friend of hers and drive him somewhere. A total stranger. My mother had her reservations but in the end SHE WAS GOING TO DO IT! I cannot comprehend that sense of familial loyalty. Mainly because I have never seen or received it in return.

Now as my mother is failing and losing all sense of who she is, my family is not there. She languishes in solitude. I tried to do what I could, but in the end her disease has brought out the “bigot” in her and she doesn’t want to live with a bunch of fags. (The plan was for her to move in with us at our new, bigger, place but she flat out refused. There are “too many men” and she “wants to be around christians.”)

It is near impossible for me to separate my “alzheimer’s mother” from who she once had been. At one time she genuinely felt that way. It was just seeing how my husband and I acted around each other that she changed her tune. She became more accepting and loving, or that was what she made me believe. Maybe she always felt the same way and just lied to my face. Which is why I cannot separate these current feelings from the disease.

I will however do what I have to for my mother, on my terms. I am basically waiting out the clock until it is IMPERITIVE for her to be put into a home. My husband has repeatedly told me that this is an expensive endeavour and will eat all of her savings, but I DO NOT CARE. I want nothing from her in the end. Her money is her’s, she raised me to be self reliant (to think for myself) and I can do just that. (She did a good job.) It is truly expensive as fuck, and the fact that insurance doesn’t pay a goddamn dime is a JOKE.

What pains me most about all of this flakey family bullshit is how much stock my mother put into them. Much like that lie Fox News sold her on gold and silver, she did the same for this idea of “blood is thicker than water” and paid out her ass. (I have since learned the adage most quoted is a bastardization of the actual saying, which literally says the opposite.) She really believed that family was everything. That you do whatever you can for them. Well… Here we are.

I’ve already decided that once she is gone, I will truly never speak to any of them again. I have no patience or feelings toward them, other than contempt for how they treated the one person who believed in them the most. I couldn’t give a fuck if they loved or even liked me. What mattered most was how they treated a truly loving woman.

Coming up Covid-19

Oh, COVID-19… how I hate it. Not because it has basically destroyed any semblance of an economy, or that it has revealed the true nature of every American over having to wear a mask, or how it has trapped all of us inside our homes with our insufferable families. No. It is because it has killed conversations. I am so over discussing it in passing or at length with anyone I may come into contact with. It’s a worn out topic that, frankly, no one has anything new to offer, and at this point we all sound like broken records. (Emphasis on the all, in that statement.)

The thing that humbles me when I start to feel the rage rising in me, in regards to Covid, is that every person in the world feels my pain. Granted we all experience it at different levels, but each of us has had shared moments.

I had written about that, some months back (the beautiful thing about the “Covid Experience” is it also kills any sense of or concept of lived time), and here I am to continue it. However, since then I, my mother, and my husband have contracted the potentially deadly disease.

Out of the three of us, each experience was very different. Even my own experience was so convoluted and bizarre it was almost like the sickness itself was trying to find out what it wanted to do.

Covid Cell 1: “Should we attack the lungs today?”

Covid Cell 2: “No. I hear the toes are really popping off though.”

My husband had the luxury of sleeping for four straight days. That isn’t hyperbole. He literally slept, morning to night, through his illness. I on the other-hand continued to work from home. Where each day was something entirely different.

The first day was full body aches with a stuffy nose (with no mucus), the next it decided to cause crazy pains at the back of my legs, the following it was just pain in my upper back, and then toward the end I just had a splitting headache that refused to go away. I never once experienced a fever, though one night I had the chills while sleeping, and a cough wasn’t really a factor in my illness that I find it odd we use these two things as bars for whether we have the disease or not.

However, I say that about a cough but it is because of that, that I even assumed my mother had contracted it from me.

I was hoping she hadn’t. It turned out that the day I started to feel some building symptoms, that my mother told me she needed to go to the emergency room. Her stomach was hurting her. As it turned out (like the last time I took her for the same thing) was that she had a UTI. Her urgency was expected but overall irritating because why then? And my husband couldn’t take her because he was for sure sick, and her caretaker couldn’t because I had her insurance information. So, it had to be me. I wore a mask the entire time I was with her and she still got it. And she survived.

The first thing my husband said when I told him she tested positive was, “Your mother is a horse.” And immediately following his statement was her caretaker who opined, “Your mother would have survived the black plague.”

It’s odd to me that my mother’s body is so healthy. She’s been overweight for all of my life, and she doesn’t have high blood pressure, heart disease, or diabetes. Nope. Her health is incredible, it’s just her brain that sucks. So it’s fitting that old age or external diseases wouldn’t be the things to potentially take her life; no, it has to be her own mind that ends it all. Strange.

Miraculously, the boyfriend didn’t get it. I don’t know how. He was hanging out in the house the first day the husband was sick. He did get sick, but his test came back negative.

I would think (and hope) that surviving something that could very well have killed me would spark some sort of urgency to finish my novel. Yet, here I am lacking any will to even peruse what I have finished. It sucks.

I have ultimately chocked it up to the belief I now feel, that there is no future. Like, I do believe life will march on. It will. It has for centuries. It will just look so very different once this is all over, if it ever ends. And in this brand new age, will my story even matter?

So, instead of writing about the new route I have decided to take in regards to my book (making it a limited serial audiobook podcast) I spent the entire post talking about Covid-19.

I told you… I hate what it’s done to conversations. And now blog posts.

Family? I don’t know them.

It’s sad to me how much my mother believes in the fantasy of “family.” She is of the school that “blood is thicker than water.” And at one time in her life it was true, but it has since diluted. For me it never existed, because I saw through my families bullshit and lies.

Lies may be a harsh word. I should just say empty promises. The words these people speak mean nothing to them, but unfortunately so much to my mother. She believes them, because at her core she would never say something she didn’t mean.

One of my cousin’s (I forget whom) had a problem with my mother because if you invited her to any event she will attend. That thought angers me for two very specific reasons: 1) why wouldn’t you want her there? and 2) is it such a bad thing to be able to depend on someone, no matter what?

When she was firing on all cylinders, she was the most giving woman to ever have existed. (She still is, by the way, she just lacks the capacity to do as much as she wants.) She would go absolutely out of her way if you asked her to. The only problem is she (subconsciously) expects that in return, and it’s not going to happen.

This morning my mother ruminated on how she had taken care of both my aunts when they had cancer and my father through his many ailments. Both of my aunts would eventually succumb to their illnesses (and my father on an unrelated injury tied to one of his many issues.) Before they had passed, she was there every step of the way. She would make the 2 hr drive down to see my aunts as often as she could without complaint because it was just what family did for one another.

Rewind many years and my mother was there for my cousin’s as they were growing up. I am in a weird spot in my family line, because all of my first cousin’s were having children when I was born. So I grew up with my second cousins. During the years before she met my father, she was the bad ass aunt who took her nieces and nephews to every southern california theme park, took them shopping, did whatever she could to give them a good childhood. She was the one they ran to when they “ran away from home.”

Returning to reality… Here we are as her mind is disintegrating and where are they? Where is this family that is supposed to come and help? They don’t even have to do anything, just visit. Sit there and reminisce. Chat. But they are nowhere. And in the end, for me, that’s fine. It further cements the notion that blood means fuckall. Yeah, you share a genetic code, but that doesn’t mean they give a shit about you.

The thing that does upset me with their absence, is that these ungrateful pieces of shit are hurting her. She languishes in isolation and wonders why no one visits her. It’s heartbreaking to watch and one I can’t answer for her, without sounding angry or bitter.

My mother loves to wax poetic that “your family loves you.” (Speaking to me, about me.) No, they don’t. They really don’t. They tolerate me or “accept” my existence. But love is being there for someone, no matter the cost. Love is not empty words spoken to make you look good, but carry no weight behind them.

Chocolate Smiles

Alzheimer’s is strange. Honestly, if she has to have some debilitating sickness, I wish my mother could have been diagnosed with anything else. At least then there is a possibility of a cure or recovery. With this it is just a trudge to the end. And in the end, it takes everything from you.

My mother is, mentally, a child. Well, preteen. She gets excited for visits, loves cookies, and watches romantic comedies like they’re going out of style. Really, she’s me circa 13 years old. Back when I still had hope.

The childishness was never more prevalent than a couple weeks ago when the husband and I took a trip to see my cousin’s new born. The husband had made a batch of chocolate chip cookies and brought them to her, which she insisted bringing half with us on our road trip.

She left them sitting in the sun so they got gooey and the chocolate started to melt. This new state of cookie existence did not stop her. She chomped away happily.

I was not aware of this until she made a garbled statement from the backseat and I turned to see her with a chocolate grin and matching fingers.

The husband doesn’t believe in tissues or napkins in his car (“cause I’m an adult that doesn’t make messes”). So we had to make due with a handkerchief (previously owned and used by my grandmother) and a bag.

What this event taught me was I need to carry wet wipes whenever my mother is around. Maybe even a diaper bag for good measure.

The more upsetting aspect of this is that while my mother is mentally a child, she is also still an adult. And she still believes that regardless to the facts to the contrary. So I am left to walk this fine line between being a son and being a caretaker.

It sucks.

This week we finally see a doctor for the growing list of her maladies. And hopefully in it get the final letter I need to get power of attorney. There is no doubt I will achieve my goal, it just means a legal turning point in this whole saga.