Well, she here…

And already completely attached to Hub.

That’s Hub’s elbow there as he’s napping on the couch since he barely slept last night. Also, 10+ hour drive yesterday to pick her up. So overnight we put her in a crate, but he was paranoid that she was going to chew the plastic crate pan because her owners said she chews and eats everything! (she did not chew or eat the crate pan overnight.)

Good grief, every time he adjusts on the couch her head pops up. Yeesh.

She’s been ok so far, but if we try to confine her out of view of Hub, she breaks out (with the exception of the crate, but we don’t want her confined to a crate except for the time being as we learn her and she learns her boundaries). So at the moment, she’s on a leash–which I am monitoring–as she tries to nap next to Hub napping. Good news is, she’s gentle and sweet, no jumping or barking (yet), and she really has very little interest so far with Butthead.

On the other hand, our goofy and playful Butthead has turned into my grumpy old lady. She’s been kind of growly at Jujube (not her real name) and we haven’t yet figured out why. Twice today outside she tried to do a little bit of a playful pounce, but in the house she’s definitely wary and growly. Jujube doesn’t even respond to the growls yet, so that’s good. But again, everything is VERRRY new for all of us. It’s going to take adjustment, as Hub and I are aware. He’s pretty upset that she won’t really talk to me but I’m okay with it. I am definitely slower to adjust and attach than Hub…he was attached as soon as he met her. It’s both a good thing and a bad thing, but we are committed to this girl so right now it’s all good. I know that change is difficult for me, stresses me out, and already I have had some migraine flares due to all the stress. So I move slowly and I kind of marinate in the changes before I really can take them in.

Plus, she’s not exactly what I expected. She’s short and fat and stubby…not what I understood Bernese Mountain dogs to be. But apparently she’s all kinds of “non-compliant” with the breed standard, so…whatev. Anyway, she’s got short legs, a round body, kind of looks like an inflated cocker spaniel to me…and I expected (and wanted) a big dog like all our previous dogs. So I have some disappointment, which Hub is very upset to hear. Eventually it will be fine, I’ll adjust and find my way and so will she. We’ll be a family unit and all will be well. Based on my blogging of Butthead, that should happen in, oh, about four months. LOL

Aaaanyway, there she is. Did I mention she’s fat? Our vet is going to have a shit-fit when he sees her. And really, she does need to lose some pounds, even I–who like fat dogs–think she’s a big too fat for her frame. I don’t judge, but I do worry about her joints because already at 2 1/2 we know she has some mild elbow dysplasia and I saw that her hips have some “irregularities”. So we’re gonna do our best to trim her down a bit…she has a long life ahead and is starting behind the eight-ball with her joints.

Also you can’t see in the photo above, but she has a really big forehead. What’s UP with that. Here…

Well, there’s the news. More to come, I’m sure. She’s toileting outside appropriately, which was a surprise to us, and really wants to be in the house…also a surprise since she was mostly an outdoor dog with access to a kennel. Hopefully the good housetraining continues!

 

I don’t know why

I’m not entirely sure why I stopped blogging, besides being sick. Once I started feeling better, I could have come back and resumed my journaling. Part of me knows that since last June we have been dealing with Le Moo’s decline. And I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to admit it, even though I admitted it in my reality. Maybe not writing it made it not as catastrophic as it really was? Or maybe I just needed the time to be with her because I knew the time was running down.

Le Moo is gone. It’s still devastates me to say or write that. We miss her so much I cannot even find words for it. My Sweet Pea, she was my heart dog…she was pretty attached to me and when she passed a piece of my heart tore away and went with her. It was like losing a limb, and I grieved her so hard that for the first time in my life I actually allowed myself to go to therapy. I had wanted to go to therapy but felt that I would be wasting money on myself. But after SP, I needed help and I went for it. Le Moo was my soul dog. I attached with her in a different way, and I felt that connection down in my soul. When we had her humanely euthanized here at home, my soul tore and left a gaping hole so deep inside that it will never be whole again. Le Moo was an old soul.

Le Moo was having many physical and mental issues. She had severe arthritis in her leg joints, her spine, and her hips. We tried to keep her comfortable with medication and laser therapy, but it benefits seemed to wane. She also started having doggie dementia, which is an actual thing (canine cognitive disfunction–CCD), which left her anxious and distressed a lot of the time. The symptoms got worse and worse, and her physical decline continued to the point where we had to help her get up from a laying position even when she had good traction. Our girl was strong and stubborn, and we could see she didn’t want to leave us because she knew how it would hurt us. But we knew it was her time, so we had a vet service who does only at-home euthanasia come in to the house. The vet came in and explained everything (even though we have been through this before) and he was very kind. Hub and I were ready with forbidden fruits for Le Moo–M&Ms and homemade chocolate chocolate chip cookies (my mother’s recipe/specialty)–so when the vet gave her the first sedative, we gave her the treat. She ate FOUR chocolate chocolate chip cookies with gusto, and snatched up every M&M hub had. When she finished the treats, her head began to slowly lower and I held her face in my hands. I told her she was amazing and that we loved her bigger than the sky and deeper than the ocean. And that it was time for her to move to the next world where she wouldn’t have a physical body to slow her down. I just kept talking to her as she fell asleep, and I had my body curled over hers as the vet gave her the last medicine. My beautiful, stubborn, amazing, loving, soulful girl went to the next world with cookie crumbs on her face.

We had her cremated–something I’ve never had done before–because I had seen these glass memorials where they take some of the ashes and create a work of art. We had that done and now this glass memorial, sprinkled with ashes–sits on top of a rotating platform, lit with led lights from below–is here with us. It’s a beautiful handblown piece of art, and it was one of the best decisions I have ever made.

We had devoted lots of time and energy to Le Moo over the last year. For the last three months of her life, Hub was basically sleeping a couple of hours in bed, then a couple of hours downstairs with Le Moo because her dementia made her restless and need to go outside to pace. We rarely left her alone, and when she became anxious or distressed, one of us went to her to reassure her. We were extremely lucky that she didn’t forget who we were but I have heard that does happen. Doggie dementia is a terrible, heart-breaking disease. There is no rationalizing with your dog, no way to explain anything…and for us there was no medication that made any difference. Nothing to stop or slow the disease, and nothing to alleviate the symptoms. We tried everything available but nothing worked. We couldn’t even help with her anxiety.

So, she’s gone. We thought Butthead would be panicking and looking for Le Moo. We let her see Le Moo after the procedure and before the vet took her body away. Only once that afternoon did Butthead wander in and out of all the rooms looking for Le Moo, but then she seemed resigned. She’s been extra clingy and depressed, but we really thought she would freak out. She used to freak out when Le Moo would leave the house for appointments or to get walkies without Butthead. But none of that happened. I’m grateful, but I see how the loss has changed all three of us.

Our lives will never be the same.

 

What the fu…?

I’m closing in on fifty. Hub is about 2 years behind me. I’m the youngest in my family, he’s the oldest in his. This means my parents are definitely older than his. And it also means his mother (and aunt) are older than us. His half-brother is younger, but very much an adult in age. He has 2 children, he will soon be divorced from his first wife, he’s currently in a relationship (and cohabitating) with a new girlfriend.

Adults.

Just setting the scene.

We had his family over for a barbeque on Sunday. I haven’t seen them in probably close to 2 years due to COVID and my migraine disease. I’m not really able to be in the car for the hour plus it takes to get to their house, and they rarely come here. But they came on Sunday, after some concerns about last minute cancelation because their dog was in the ER for an infection due to a bite wound. Turns out the ER was not ready to release their dog so they came over as scheduled.

In preparation for this family get-together, Hub and I baked desserts (cake and cookies and rice crispie treats) and made ice cream (for his mom and aunt, a favorite flavor they often request). We also went shopping for barbeque foods, bought/made and grilled hot dogs, hamburgers (homemade), and chicken breasts. Hub bought several bags of chips, we made roasted veggies, boiled fresh sweet corn on the cob, etc.

We baked the desserts because I had a (brief) conversation with his mother on Facebook about whether I would be up to baking for the get-together because I had just baked a TON of desserts for our local crisis shelter residents and staff. I promised I would come up with something since seeing them all was such a special occasion after almost two years. I baked the chocolate fudge cake from scratch, frosted it with homemade frosting, Hub decorated the top. I helped him bake special giant fun cookies from scratch, I helped him make the ice cream from scratch, and I made the rice crispies treats drizzled with melted white chocolate chips and butterscotch chips (this was for me since I can’t eat any of the other desserts).

So we were ready for a food-filled day, lots of which were homemade and special for his family.

His family arrived, we put out the chips for snacking (which they ate a lot of), they brought (non-alcoholic) drinks for them and the kids (Hub and I basically drink water/hot tea/coffee). There was much hugging and lots of “how are yous?” and “it’s been so long!” exclamations. I had a puzzle setup in the dining room so they migrated in to check it out and try to put some pieces in (after asking if they could). Hub and I were cooking food, putting condiments on the table, etc. Conversation turned to whether or not I had been up to baking for them, so Hub gently grabbed his mother and guided her into the pantry where we had the desserts waiting for later.

You would have thought none of these people had eaten in the last two years. Hub left the pantry to go check on the grill, so the rest of his family raced into the pantry and began exclaiming over the desserts. Then they opened the containers that the desserts were in and started taking them and shoving the food into their mouths.

WHAT THE FUCK.

Adults. Like goddamn children who had never been taught manners. OPENED MY CLOSED FOOD CONTAINERS AND BEGAN GRABBING FOOD WITH THEIR HANDS AND SHOVING IT IN THEIR MOUTHS. I guess I should have been grateful that they didn’t start digging their fingers into the cake and jamming it in their food-holes with their hands. They were laughing at my anger, completely ignoring how upset I was. And you couldn’t miss it, I did not hide my emotional state.

I was so appalled…and enraged. I stomped into the pantry and yelled at them to get out. Then I closed the door behind us. My mother-in-law had TWO rice crispie treats in her hands, marshmallow goo on her fingers and all around her mouth, and she’s cackling and chewing and screaming with her mouth open, “I didn’t take anything!” Haw haw haw. His brother had taken one of the giant cookies and (I was informed an hour later that he had only taken ONE cookie and everyone else had snatched pieces of his stolen cookie) and was eating it heartily. FINALLY, he said, they had been able to eat some of the delicious desserts they had been seeing posted on Facebook (mostly that I have donated to local charities/the fire department/the police station).

I was so angry my vision had turned red. Angry, disgusted, disrespected. I went back to whatever I had been doing at my kitchen island, preparing food for them (I literally ate chicken and roasted veggies, and that was it). They were discussing that maybe there were MORE treats hidden somewhere. Like was there ICE CREAM IN THE FREEZER.

Y’all, they went back into my pantry and began moving the desserts off the chest freezer so they could open my fucking freezer to see if there was homemade ice cream inside.

Are you goddamn kidding me? ADULTS.

I went right back in there, nearly slammed the freezer top shut (just barely removing a child’s hand from the way first) and shrieked at them to get out of the room. I grabbed the dessert containers and put them back on top of the chest freezer, returned the cake to the top of the freezer, and pushed them out of the room once more.

They’re laughing, grinning, so excited at their discoveries. How fun for them!

I made it through dinner without any felonies. They ate meat, meat, and buns. A couple of ears of corn, two or three people ate a pittance of the roasted veggies. We cleaned up, re-set the table for dessert, and we set out the remainder of the desserts which included the afore mentioned homemade ice cream, plus several other flavors of store-bought ice cream, caramel and fudge sauce, and whipped cream. Hub cut the cake and served it to those who requested a piece. They ate a bunch of the big cookies, ate more of my rice crispies treats than I would have preferred, ate only the homemade ice cream…and then left tons of the food on their plates because they were so full from pre-dinner theft and chips grazing and meat/bread at dinner.

We began cleaning up, piling dessert dishes in the sink for later, running the dishwasher from dinner, making sure all the food was wrapped and put away. I made some doggie bags for Hub’s mother and aunt, his brother packed himself some cookies without asking. Once the kitchen was in order (at least for the time being), we moved into the family room to sit and talk and pet the dogs. I actually stepped outside for a bit with one of the dogs to try to recover some of my energy…I could have stayed out there for the remainder of the evening, but I didn’t. They hung out as Hub showed off some of his new electronic toys, and generally spent time. When they were ready to leave, we handed out the doggie bags, made sure everyone had everything, then saw them off. For me, it was time to get back to the kitchen to do a better clean and organize what remained from the evening food-wise. It also meant throwing things away and taking out the full trashbags from the kitchen. And then I found it…

Someone threw out an entire uneaten piece of cake by shoving it into my kitchen trashcan–missing the bag so that the chocolate cake was smeared down the inside of the can. And the mess was covered with a large wad of paper towels. Who did they think was going to clean that up when they went to empty the trash later? The maid? Who was going to empty the trash and miss the entire piece of chocolate cake with frosting smashed in there?

I mean sure, you didn’t have enough room? DON’T TAKE AN ENTIRE PIECE OF CAKE along with the cookies and rice crispies treats and ice cream. Didn’t like the cake? That’s fine, I’m not insulted…don’t jam it carelessly into the trashcan and leave me an extra fucking mess to clean up after I’d been on my feet prepping and cooking and setting up since 9am that morning for them. Don’t be so goddamn rude and disrespectful in my home. MY HOME. Repeatedly. Obnoxiously.

I would NEVER behave like any of that in someone else’s home, let alone my husband’s family’s home. Or my family. Never. Not even as a CHILD would I have been that obnoxious in someone else’s home, family or otherwise. NEVER. I knew better.

Later that evening, I sent my therapist, T, a message.

What do you do when the rude and inconsiderate people you would like to cut out of your life for your sanity are your in-laws?
Asking for a friend.
And can the friend bar these people from ever coming back to their home?

The end result of that conversation was that it was my house and my rules. No yelling–because that means you know your voice isn’t being heard–just stating the rules and keeping the rules of the house. As if they were obvious rules. (Which they should have been.) And that there doesn’t need to be black or white. I don’t have to bar them from the house, but I certainly don’t have to be there if they come to visit. I can do whatever I want–bar them from the house, don’t go to their house, don’t ever see them again–but make those decisions with a conscious understanding of the consequences.

I would never hurt my husband by never seeing his family again. I would never hurt him by telling him he couldn’t invite them to our house. I would never hurt him by treating them disrespectfully.

And I’m never going to let them treat me the way they treat him (they are so shitty to him, no joke I have complained about this for more years than I can remember). My house, my rules. Don’t like it? Don’t come over.

I would also NEVER disrespect them the way they disrespected me in my own home. NEVER. Not even after what they’ve done to me in my home.

Hub knows and understands how I feel. He agreed that it was disrespectful, but I don’t think he feels as strongly as I do about it. That’s okay, the fact that he acknowledged my feelings about it is good enough for me.

I’m still recovering from the evening, which is about par for the course for me. It’s a lot of physical work and standing and moving…and it’s a lot of mental energy of just participating. And not committing any felonies.

 

If you see something…

…say something.

But not in the way you expect.

Recently I wrote a post on my non-anonymous facebook page about seeking to appreciate my body and how it has held and carried me for my whole life. I posed the question to others about when was the last time they thought or spoke harshly about their body…and the last time they said or thought something positive about their body. In a surprise response, one of my younger cousins told me that she had been unhappy with her body since the birth of her last child. I could understand even without being a mother, and I also felt sad for this bright and beautiful woman.

My cousin is a brilliant and compassionate doctor, mother, spouse, child, and cousin. I’m sure she is also an amazing friend. Growing up I remember her always being petite and china-doll like (with amazing curly hair!). I was always the giant overweight kid and I hated standing next to her…I felt even bigger and clumsier. As we both grew up, she matured into a lovely and very slender young woman…and she proved just how bright she is. Her path to being a doctor was a long one–as is the way–and her persistence and drive was clear. I admire the hell out of her and find myself lucky to count her as family. She has helped me and my immediate family many times during medical crises and issues. She always makes herself available to support and counsel and advise us, even though she is not technically a doctor to any of us.

I have seen over the years how she has changed physically–as we all have–and what I have seen is a tall, beautifully proportionate and curvy woman. To my mind, she is not in any way overweight. Period.

In response to her comment on my post, I told her I understood her feelings. I told her I loved her and that I thought she was amazing and beautiful. I know from my own experiences that hearing that from someone else isn’t the same as feeling that way about myself.

Over the weekend we had a family zoom to catch up with our families. Parents, aunts and uncles, cousins, kids of cousins, nieces and nephews…etc. Aged from 79 to newborn. As we were catching up, I saw my cousin attending to her daughter and answering a questions about COVID, and I thought to myself, “Goodness, she looks so beautiful tonight!” I texted her privately and said as much, that in addition to her big beautiful brain she looked so lovely. She had straightened her hair and was wearing a very flattering outfit. I wanted her to know what I thought. I watched her respond to the buzz on her phone and read my text. She made a little face and responded that her daughter had wanted them to have matching “straight” hair for the day, and I told her like mother like daughter, they both looked very pretty.

Prior to COVID, I would be out and about and I tried to offer random acts of kindness by speaking personally to people I came across. I love those shoes! Your nails are so cute! That coat is awesome! Your hair is so pretty! It’s kind of amazing how you can affect someone’s day–even someone you don’t know–with a small compliment.

We have less contact with people these days but the same applies, even over zoom or teams or google meet…if you see something, say something. Reach out, make a connection with a human being. Offer kindness when you are able.

 

Come give auntie a kiss!

Does this sound familiar to you? As a kid we were always encouraged to go greet adults (not even just relatives) with hugs and kisses. It was like we were offending them if we didn’t greet close friends and family with exuberant hugs and kisses.

I’ve been slowly making my way through “Rage Becomes Her: The Power of Women’s Anger” by Soraya Chemaly. There are a number of parts of the book that have changed the way I think, and changed the way I look at things that have happened in my life. Those moments when you feel something isn’t quite right. As a kid we can’t be expected to understand these feelings, we should be able to trust the adults in our life to watch out for us. I’m not sure that the adults in my life were neglecting me or not watching out for me, I just think it was a different time and we weren’t as aware of the things that can affect a child and/or affect their future life.

I had an uncle–who has since passed over 10 years ago–who always hugged me hard and kissed me on the lips. He wore smelly cologne and I always felt overwhelmed by him and his affection. I don’t have any concerns that he was looking to do anything inappropriate, he was just an old generation that felt that children should show their respect and affection with physical greetings. Today during my therapy I realized out loud that this person (who was married into my family) had left me feeling some distaste of big hugs and being smothered with affection. I often tell my husband that I feel overwhelmed by his affection (also a big man, but in a different way) and now I wonder if this is a result of my relationship with my uncle.

I have several nieces and nephews between Hub’s family and my own. Although I will hug my mother-in-law, I never require or ask that the kids hug me or kiss me hello, or hug or kiss me goodbye. I never require or ask that of any of the children in our families. I always tell the parents not to force their kids to greet me in any way other than what is comfortable for the kids. I have been more than adamant about this with B3 and his daughter, not even 18 months old. I am so close with B3 that I feel so strongly about supporting her and helping her learn to be better than I was. And I feel strongly about wanting more for her than I had. Reading “Rage Becomes Her” has really made me understand that we as a society ask for things from children that we should not. Oftentimes these things are asked disproportionately of girls because girls should be kind and polite and sweet and smile for you and please you and never speak up and never be angry because angry is ugly and no one will want you if you’re ugly. I still find myself falling almost automatically into these categories to the detriment of my mental health.

I mentioned in a previous post that my father made fun of me while I was there helping him and the visiting nurse was checking him over. I nearly left the room, but stopped myself. I was there for a reason and I was staying to make sure he was taken care of. I didn’t say anything, I didn’t speak up. I sat there like a polite young woman, taking notes and seeing to my father’s post-surgery needs. Inside I was angry, but like millions of other girls, I was taught that angry is ugly and I don’t want to be ugly and I don’t want to NOT be wanted. I stifled my anger and did my duty, and only later did I allow myself to feel the anger. Later, when I was alone, when I could be as angry and as ugly as I wanted.

When I was talking about this with my therapist today, she asked me to do a body check (bio-location) when I was thinking about that moment…when my father made fun of me. Immediately I recognized the tightness in my throat. I didn’t speak up for myself. What else, she asked me. My shoulders and my neck, they felt hard as a rock. Tense, taut, like I was pulling a cart behind me with a yoke over my shoulders, lugging the feelings of shame and anger and unfulfilled confrontation. I have been learning to stand up for myself with my brothers and with my husband, and I thought I had been doing the same with my father. I have done it here and there, but still there are times I let myself down and allow him to make me feel small again. I feel like that little girl who never got what she needed from her father. I feel small and insignificant. I hate it.

The good news is, I’m getting better at telling him that what he has done or said is not okay with me. This is hard…T says there are tentacles in this relationship that reach back through my whole life. Following and releasing those tentacles take patience, work, and persistence. I can see and celebrate the times I untangle those tentacles…and I can give myself some compassion for those times that I don’t stand up the way I want to. Sadly, there will be more times for me to do this better…and there is always the comprehension that there won’t always be times to do it better.

Here
I am
compassion.

 

Monday Musings

Hub and I are coming up on almost 30 years of being together. We have long since remade how and why we give each other gifts. We are fortunate and do not NEED much that we don’t buy, and our wants are less urgent in the manner of physical items. We are, however, very likely to give each other gifts for no reason. I have always been the type of person to be out and about–or shopping online–and see something that’s just PERFECT for someone, and so I will buy it. I have also been more likely to make something for someone out of the blue. I like it…I like the unexpectedness of it all. On birthdays and anniversaries and “holidays” it is all so pressured and people are looking for perfect and we aren’t into that. Sometimes we still buy each other things on special days but often it’s one-sided. For example, our last anniversary I bought Hub a big surprise gift which he wasn’t expecting. He didn’t buy me anything, which is 100% fine with me. For Valentine’s day he bought me some really thoughtful gifts, but I didn’t buy him anything.

So for the majority of my family, I will oftentimes randomly give (or in days of COVID send) them something that strikes me as being THEM. At one point this past summer, I sent two of my brothers (and their SO’s) gift boxes of chocolate snacky things. I didn’t warn them, it just showed up at their houses. This, of course, before B2 and I had stopped talking. I made the third brother cookies and brought them over. Hub and I have an old friend that we haven’t actually seen physically in many years, but we know her very very well. I saw an ad on my FB feed that just screamed her name, so I ordered and had it sent to her after the holidays were over and before her birthday was due. She loved it and I loved that.

Random acts of kindness, I love that. It’s partly why I enjoy donating hats and scarves and whatever else we can do. The person on the receiving end gets something they weren’t expecting and I get the joy of surprising and sharing. I used to crochet little butterflies and I left them places for people to find.

Do you like giving gifts (any kind!) for no reason at all? What kind of responses do you get?

 

Friday Fotos

My grandmother’s lace table cloth.

 

The blame game

I guess this month (or two) is going to be about my father. It’s all up in my face since I’m half his caregiver and all his scheduler/assistant/phone answerer/organizational tool.

So far my father has seen several in-home modalities–the visiting nurse, occupational therapy, physical therapy–and with each of them he ended up angry and sputtering…he didn’t want this surgery, he never had any symptoms, and the cardiologist overreacted. He’s out there blaming everyone and everything for his current post-bypass recovery…everyone except himself. No one made him do the surgery, he had the opportunity to say no. His cardiologist told him if you don’t have the surgery you are very likely to have a heart attack. You might die, you might survive, but it’s either that or the bypass. It was my father’s decision as to have the bypass or not. He chose to have the bypass because he would have preferred to not have a heart attack and die. Now he’s telling everyone he wished he had done nothing because dying had to be less distressing than his current state of recovery.

Let me be clear, my father was pretty damn independent before the surgery. There was very little he didn’t do for himself, except maybe grocery shop or pay bills online. Post surgery, despite him being 79 years old with high blood pressure, high cholesterol, type 2 diabetes, peripheral neuropathy, sciatica, spinal stenosis, cataracts, and some mild dementia…he’s doing nearly 80% of what he was doing before. He can’t get in and out of bed on his own (most of the time, but sometimes he can) and he can’t shower on his own, and he can’t put on his own compression socks. Seriously, those are the things he can’t do. Also, he can’t drive, but that’s because he can’t use his chest or arm muscles until his sternum heals. OK. Occupational therapy said they barely had anything for him to do, physical therapy said they’d help him get his stamina back and build up his core muscles so he can get in and out of bed on his own. But he’s pissed off he can’t function on his own and he’s looking to place blame somewhere else.

Fortunately for him, he’s not trying to push it on me, because I’d be out. I don’t baby him, I tell him the choices he makes are his and so are the consequences. I don’t follow him around and I don’t hover…two things he abhors. I told him he has to let me know if he needs my help and otherwise I will leave him alone. I’m in the house and available if he needs me, but it has to be his decision to ask for help. It’s odd for me because it’s very different from how I took care of my mother. She wanted me to be with her, she wanted my company and my distraction. She appreciated my heart and my compassion and my affection. My father gives me the shit he doesn’t want to deal with and rejects my emotional support. I understand why, but it makes me feel like I’m not giving my all. I don’t have the same compassion for my father that I had for my mother. My relationship with my mother wasn’t perfect and I have things I’m still working on resolving from it. My father, I have anger from my childhood and my adulthood and from when my mother was sick. I don’t hate him, but I don’t necessarily have unconditional love for him. I’m not sure what it is. A very deep, mean part of me thinks he has gotten what he has deserved with this surgery. He’s damn lucky he didn’t have a massive heart attack and he isn’t worse off. My mother died from stupid cancer that she couldn’t have prevented, my father smoked for 70 years, ate terribly, refused to take care of himself and didn’t get help 2 years ago when he should have…this is his consequence.

Even writing these things makes me feel small and mean and shameful. Listening to him be pissed off at the doctors who repaired him, at the doctors who cared about him and advised him like they would have their own father…it makes me so angry. All of these people–and his children–they all care more about him than he cares about himself. Why do we all bother? Just so he can moan and yell and lay blame?

So much word vomit from so much emotional vomit. It’s been a very long week and for me (irl) it’s only Monday. Oy.

* Okay, so I’m not neglecting him or treating him poorly despite what I have said. These are innermost thoughts and feelings. I would never neglect or mistreat anyone I am caring for. 💛

 

After the attack

The attack that was…or wasn’t, depending on who you talk to. If you ask my father, he didn’t have a heart attack, no way no how. If you ask any of the three cardiologists who saw or worked on him, he had a “mild” heart attack. Meaning no damage and no issues with function. But he had three major blockages, one 90%, one 80% and one 60%. The triple bypass lottery bingo. He went in for surgery on a Wednesday morning with a top cardiac surgeon in our area. They were supposed to take him in at 6:30 and it was supposed to be a 3 hour surgery. By 11am I was on the verge of freaking out. I thought I had been patient enough, so I called the hospital and was transferred to the surgery office. They couldn’t tell me anything but took my information and said they would ask the nurse to call me back. No dice. At 12:30 the surgeon called to say Dad was out of surgery and that all was well. He expected a full recovery. No one ever told me why the surgery took so long, but from paperwork later I saw that he had been anesthetized at 6:30am but the procedure didn’t start until after 8am. Seems weird, but maybe they were looking at images again, or taking more blood work. Either way, he was out of surgery and into the cardiac ICU. Apparently there they have a 1:1 nurse to patient ratio. The nurse was in the room all day.

So when we left off on the previous post, there was the standing question of who was going to be the only one seeing Dad at the hospital for his entire stay. Hub had put bets on me being the visitor, and I had hopes that he was wrong. I didn’t want to expose myself to COVID in the hospital because I was going to be the secondary caregiver at home and the organizational contact for my father. I didn’t want B1 going in because he was going to be the primary caregiver, being that he lives with Dad. B2 had to take his dog in for surgery the day OF the bypass surgery (we had no idea there was even going to BE a bypass surgery, so B2 had made the appointment before all this came up), so that left B3. Without even a query from me, B3 said he would do it, despite having a young baby at home. I’m grateful to his fiancée for taking over at their home so that B3 could be with Dad. B3 said he would take his work with him to the hospital and do what he could while Dad was sleeping or resting, or whatever.

Visiting hours at the hospital were from 2-8pm. The first day, B3 showed up at the hospital just before 2 because he couldn’t wait another minute to see Dad. Once in the hospital, B3 has to stay in Dad’s hospital room or be out of the hospital. There was no hanging out in the halls or in the lobby because of COVID. He had to get a code to even get INTO the hospital. When he arrived, he found that Dad was still sedated and intubated. It was a bit of a shock because we didn’t realize they would leave him intubated once the surgery was over. Apparently they don’t remove the tube until Dad is awake and aware enough to follow instructions. B3 arrived at 2pm, the CICU staff tried to wake Dad around 5pm. They lightened his sedation a little at a time, but almost immediately he was squirming and making faces. They tried to adjust the sedation, but they became concerned that he was showing signs of pain. They decided to “retreat” and sedate him again. They sent B3 home, saying they would try to lift sedation again a few hours later. They did and it was successful.

Dad’s surgery was Wednesday morning, he was discharged Sunday afternoon. It’s crazy. And truth be told, he’s been doing pretty good. He’s grumpy and angry, and has said multiple times he wished he had never had the surgery. He said he wished that he had let whatever happen, happen. I know a lot of this is chemical from the surgery, and that all of this is normal for post-surgery. It makes me sad, though, because he’s doing so well and he can’t see it.

I hired home health aids to help us with Dad’s recovery at home. We initially had people scheduled 24/7 because I knew I wouldn’t be able to move him around if he needed assistance. And I assumed he’d be pretty immobile. This wasn’t the case. He’s actually been fairly mobile since the first day home, and has insisted on doing as much for himself as possible. He was pretty independent before the surgery and he won’t settle for anything less upon recovery. We realized pretty quickly he didn’t need someone following him around during the day, but he definitely needed help overnight. So we rescheduled the health aids to be there from 8pm to 8am, and then either B1 is there or I am during the day. Just in case he needs a little assistance with anything. Also, he shouldn’t be alone so soon after surgery. B1 works from home 3 days a week and is there on the weekends, I go over the 2 days when B1 is out of the house. And so far I’ve been over to check in every day, and to give B1 a break from worrying. He’s a worrier. I know, I’ve been there.

So at the moment, things are status quo. Dad’s early in his recovery, but even the visiting nurse was impressed…and she was a cardiac nurse for 20 years. Dad should be starting PT on Monday, and hopefully he gets stronger every day.

I’ve been doing pretty well, mentally and emotionally, up until yesterday when the visiting nurse came. I’ll post about that next time.

 

Friday Fotos

Hosta from my mother’s yard, from her mother’s yard.