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Finding connections

I wasn’t sure what to do this year about mother’s day. Last year I sent Hub off to his mother’s house without me, and I spent part of the day with my brother and his then wife (now ex-wife). I talked with T about this on Friday, because I feel some guilt about not going to my mother-in-law’s to be with her, but I just am not ready yet this year. I know she understands–as does Hub–but I am at heart a people-pleaser, and so the guilt sat heavy with me. In the end, though, I couldn’t make myself go.

My father had mentioned to me Friday evening that he was going to go to the cemetery to visit my mother’s grave and he asked if I wanted to go. I didn’t answer him at that point, but Sunday morning when I saw him, he brought it up again. He said he knew it made me feel “uncomfortable”, but he wanted to make the offer for me to join him. I tried to be gentle in responding when I said to him, “I don’t feel uncomfortable about going, but the truth is, I don’t feel a connection to Mom there. I don’t feel it to Nana and Papa, either…it doesn’t work that way for me.” (my grandparents are buried in the plots next to my mother). For real, I feel more of a connection to my mother in her “den” closet, where she had a bunch of books stashed on a bookshelf…gardening, trees, cookbooks…I stumbled on them at one point and ended up crying. Because that’s my mother. The cemetery is just a marker for her physical body’s last resting place, but it has no history for me with her. My father only said OK and that he was okay to go alone, which I had to trust was true.

Somewhere around ten a.m., I texted my brother (the one with the ex-wife) to see what he was doing that afternoon. He said “nothing”, so I asked if he wanted to do something. What I really wanted to do was go back to the nursery where Mom and I used to go all the time, and where he and I went after she died. I also offered up the opportunity for him to come to my house to help me bake peanut butter cookies, which he (and my other brother) scarf up as fast as I can make them. His response was a preference to go to the garden center, so in some corner of my mind I knew it was the right thing to do. Even Hub said as much when I told him my plans for the afternoon while he was with his mother…he said my mom would be happy to know I was spending time there with my brother.

So after lunch, my brother and I set out for the nursery, which is about 20 minutes away. We talked a lot in the car about how he’s been doing with his depression and his medication, as well as some other health issues he’s dealing with. But once at the nursery, we talked about plants. We walked around the big place for about two hours–which leaves me exhausted and in pain today unfortunately–just chattering and touching plants and gagging over the high prices. We bought absolutely nothing, but it was worth the time and energy and pain, because it felt right. This brother and I, we have always been the closest of the siblings–with the exception of his married life where he withdrew from the whole family…and even then I tried to stay in touch with him as much as it was possible–so this connection felt good to renew. I know he’s struggling with his depression and his newly single life and his desire for a partner and…well, lots of stuff. And part of today was to remind him that he’s not alone. Doing that for my mom and for him made the day work for me.

I miss my mother so terribly. Every day. I feel like my identity without her has been lost. I don’t know how to get it back…yet. I’m still searching, and maybe someday I’ll find my purpose again.

I described (to T and a friend) the run-up to mother’s day as “being poked with a cattle prod when you’re already on fire”…and it’s true. That’s so much how I felt with all the television commercials and the holiday displays in all the stores and the radio commercials and facebook and instagram and on and on. I worry that it will always feel this way, this painful, this sad, this lost. Living without my mom has changed my life and changed me at my core. I don’t know how to adjust to that, or that adjustment is even possible. Somehow, I have to find a way forward. Last night I watched Bad Moms on television while Hub was still at his mother’s. There’s a point in the movie where Mila Kunis is talking to her movie daughter and she basically says, “I know you can make it through this because I’m your mother and I know what you’re made of.” It was such a dumb, funny, stupid, crazy movie, but that scene and those words (which I can’t remember exactly) really hit me hard. I know my mother believed in me and believed in my strength and my ability to persist. I hope I can find a way to continue to make her proud in that aspect as I try to find my way.


 

As a minor update, I finished all my bactrim pills successfully. I don’t know how much I feel better, but so far it seems the smell is gone, so I take that as success. I wasn’t too much more itchy the last day and half, so that was good. My stomach isn’t entirely back to normal yet, but I know the bactrim stays in your system for several days following the last pill. So hopefully another couple of days and my stomach will be better.

 

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Sleep? Why bother…

Apparently this is what my body and brain has decided. Sleep unnecessary.

I know that for real it has to do with my mental, emotional, and physical pain. All of those wrapped into one, split into pieces, kneaded into each other, and then rolled into a throbbing ball of oneness. I’m so on edge that one small scrape and I’m raw and bleeding profusely, figuratively.

I cried on the way to the grocery store this morning. Not because I had to go to the grocery store, not because I was worried about being able to afford the trip to the grocery store, not because I was afraid I was going to have an anxiety attack in the grocery store… I cried because I couldn’t not cry. I’m tired, I’m not sleeping, I’m worried about Hub and I’m worried about Butthead. I’m worried about myself, too. My grief is overwhelming every part of my life and I can’t seem to dig my way out of it.

Hub is agonizing over a job offer–in part because it might mean less flexibility and he worries that he won’t be able to come home if I need him–that he received on Friday. I’m worried for him because I don’t feel that the company was being up front with him…they kind of bait and switched the job position (which they apparently did to the guy before him, someone Hub knows). I am concerned he won’t have any backup on his work, and I’m worried because if this is how they treat potential employees, how do they treat current employees. But Hub is unhappy in his current job and looking for a way out. Our health insurance changed due to the buy-out, so he’s both unhappy with the new corporate owners and unhappy with their shitty health insurance. Unfortunately, the potentially new company has equally shitty health insurance…so that kind of cancels out the pro/con in that category. Now they’re not budging on a concession he asked about (a minor concession on their part!), so that might be the end of that. I only hope that his current corporate overlords don’t decide that he’s no longer needed before he finds something else.

Butthead is randomly puking again. I mean, it’s good news that she’s not persistently puking like the last episode where we ended up rushing her to the vet hospital and coming home with anti-vomit pills… But this randomly throwing up (twice in the last four days…one of which was this morning which was another reason why I was so upset) is so frustrating. We don’t know if she’s sneaking and eating bad things outside or has gastritis and so her stomach hurts her or what… We’re at the point where we’re acclimating her to a basket muzzle that she’ll have to wear anytime she’s outside so she doesn’t eat crap off the ground and make herself sick. It’s hard and sad to make her wear a muzzle because she’s a good dog, not aggressive, shouldn’t have to wear it. I know it’s uncomfortable and bulky and just plain weird for her, but we don’t know what else to do with her. We can’t figure out what is wrong with her. And if it’s that she’s eating stuff outside that’s making her sick, there’s nothing else we can do other than the muzzle. For the past month or so we’ve been out there with her every minute, following her and standing over her and making sure she’s not eating things. But with the snow and ice, and my physical capabilities being limited at this point…I couldn’t keep up with her and I think she might have eaten something that made her vomit last Thursday when I wasn’t standing over her. We just don’t know what to do with her… So I’m worried that she’s going to vomit again like the last episode. Ugh. So far it’s been these two random episodes and today I spent time on and off modifying the basket muzzle to try to use a quick-snap collar to hold it on her head versus the old-fashioned buckle which is a pain in the ass to get on and off of her, especially with her floppy ears and long hair.

Even though I’ve been feeling ultra shitty and exhausted, we had to do a bunch of things this weekend. Most of which we accomplished. Unfortunately, one of the things was cleaning up the caulk in our master shower which seemed to be growing mold behind the caulk at the joints of the floor and wall. Hub is not flexible, so he had trouble sitting on the floor and scraping at the caulk, so I did 90% of it. Which, of course, hurt my arms, shoulders, and hands more than they were already hurting. The end result, though, is that we need to call in a professional to look at our shower because this is the second time in a year that we’ve ended up with this problem. Last time my brother helped me strip and re-caulk the shower, but now we’re in the same place again… There’s something wrong if there’s mold and mildew growing behind the caulk, especially since we bought mold-resistant caulk. This all means that we don’t have a shower in our bathroom and we have to haul ass to the shower on the opposite end of the house…past all the windows in the front of the house and over the foyer area of the house. It also means we have to haul all our paraphernalia into the other shower, which is smaller than our master shower. It’s not a huge deal, it’s just more stress. And more stress in having to find someone who knows what they are doing to come into the house to fix whatever is happening. The stupid sub-contractor that our builder hired to do our bathrooms did not know what they were doing. They screwed several things up in our master bathroom and ruined a lot of our shower floor tiles by having to go back and chip out all the wrong grout they put in. So we were left with grout over top of grout, and chipped tiles. And the slope of the floor is really bad, which causes water to pool in different spots in the shower and leaves our grout with water stains where the water sits. It’s shitty and depressing and frustrating. That’s all in addition to whatever this caulk situation is.

I have my mammogram on Wednesday. We finally got our health insurance cards from Hub’s new corporate overlords. I opened the mail, found the card, and called for my appointment all within about ten minutes. The first they had was a week away (now this Wednesday) and I took the appointment. I am pretty paranoid about keeping up with my mammos, so I’m glad that it’s only about ten days overdue from the day I had it last year.

I was supposed to have a relaxing massage last week. I had it scheduled in between two trigger point appointments…I normally go to TP massage therapy once a month (ish). So I scheduled the relaxing massage exactly two weeks after one TP appointment and two weeks before the next TP appoint. And then it snowed, and my relaxing massage appointment got canceled. And I really really wanted it. I mean, not enough to endanger my therapist or myself, but I’m so disappointed. I knew this was going to be a difficult month (technically, it’s been a difficult year so far), so I had planned for the relaxing massage–which I never get–and then plans went pfffft. Since my massage therapist only works two days a week, there were no openings for me to do a make-up massage. I don’t know when I’ll be able to fit it in again.

I told T on Friday that I want this grief to have some kind of end date. But with every day, every month, it stays. It’s a solid burden that I carry with me every. This month is especially difficult as it’s the (one year) anniversary of Mom’s death. And with every calendar day I think of what I was doing on “this” day last year. How we had no idea what was coming. How we took her to an arboretum in the city trying to perk up her spirits…not knowing how soon it would get so bad. How it happened so fast. How I was late to Hub’s birthday dinner last year because I was with Mom and Dad helping them with something. How it was only days after his birthday that she was in the hospital and then hours later that she was gone. Grief has no end date. It plays by no rules. It doesn’t give a shit who you are or what you want. It lives and breathes and grows and growls and harps and hammers and changes and does whatever the hell it wants. And it sucks.

 

 

 

 

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Birthdays and grief

My mother’s birthday was a few days before the holidays. As one of my brothers said to me, “I’m sure it’s not creeping up on you, either…” And it wasn’t. T thinks that a lot of my pain and anxiety were around the colonoscopy without my mother being there, and because of my mother’s birthday, and because of the holidays without her.

Yeah, I knew her birthday was coming. I knew it was going to be bad. I also knew I had somewhat of a plan for the day. Before Mom got sick, when she was still crocheting, she hooked up a bunch of preemie hats for our local hospital’s NICU. At the time, it wasn’t a lot of hats, so we kept saying we were holding off before taking them in. After Mom passed, I took all of the small amounts of yarn I had and crocheted more tiny hats. Then I put them all into a bag and left them in my library. Because I knew what I wanted to do.

On Mom’s birthday, I woke up and got dressed. And I called my father to see how he was. He said he was just going to call me because he was going to the cemetery and he wanted to know if I wanted to go. I didn’t really, but I didn’t want him to go alone. So instead of answering him directly, I said if he would take me up to the hospital to drop off the preemie hats, I would go with him to the cemetery. He said okay, so we left about ten minutes later.

At the hospital–where my father’s sister (my aunt) was admitted and stayed for several days, and where my mother went for her lymphedema wraps–I left Dad in the parking lot and I went inside. At the main desk, they checked me in and directed me to the NICU. As I made my way down the hall, I saw someone walk into the elevator, so I hurried to join her so I could save some time waiting for another elevator. Inside, the woman standing across from me smiled, then looked at the bag in my arms and her smile got wider. She asked me if I was bringing hats to the NICU. I said yes, and her eyes seemed to sparkle. She was heading for the NICU herself…she had twin girls who had been born before Thanksgiving–when they were due after Christmas. I said congratulations and I hoped they were doing well, which she said they were. And she told me, “They brought me to see the girls for the first time, and there they were in hand-knitted hats, and it just made my heart skip a beat. That someone out there did that for me and for them, complete strangers!” Her smile was so big.

When the elevator doors opened, I walked with her down the hall and into the NICU waiting area. I wished her luck and she disappeared behind a door that the nurse unlocked for her. I approached the nurse, who was behind a glass windowed reception area, and I put my bag of 40 hats on the counter in between us. And I announced that I was there to drop off crocheted hats for the babies. In all sizes, all colors, all different types of yarns. The nurse smiled and took the bag, then started going through the hats. She oohed and ahhed over some of them, and even rubbed a few on her cheek and said how soft they were. She told me how wonderful if it was to have them, and wanted to know “how many women are there in your group that made these?” I laughed and said it was just my mom and me. The sweet woman said, “oh my goodness, please give your mom a hug for me!”

I basically nodded and smiled, gave a wave, and left the unit for the safety of the hallway. It was hard. I tried not to cry as I made my way back through the hospital and out to the car where my father was waiting. Fortunately, he was busy navigating the parking lot and trying to figure out the best way to get to the cemetery, so our conversation was pretty sparse.

When we were done and I was home, I cried. I cried because those were the last hats I had from her. I cried because I missed her. I cried because I hated where I was in my life without her.

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When my mom was going through chemo, I made her a bunch of hats for her to wear after she lost her hair. Years ago, probably six or seven years, before I was crocheting, she was supposed to crochet me an open-weave sweater to wear over a tank top. She never got to it, for various reasons. I don’t even know what happened to the yarn we picked out. She crocheted me a shawl for my brother’s wedding, and added crocheted sleeves to an evening gown for my cousin’s black-tie wedding. So I really have nothing I can wear that she made for me. I wish I did. The last thing she crocheted was a lap blanket that she was expecting to donate, but a few days after she died, I took it. I wrapped it up in tissue paper and put it into a plastic bag that a set of sheets came in, and I put it away in my guest room. It’s in a drawer in my grandparents’ dresser. It’s ugly as sin color-wise, but I can’t bear to part with it. I also have a ruffled ball that was supposed to be for a baby that was a test-project. It’s on a shelf in my bookcase hidden behind some doors with the perfume that I took from her bathroom drawers a few months after she died.

I honored my  mom as best I could on her birthday. My birthday is coming up soon. Hub usually cooks me a special dinner and he’s been asking me what I want to eat. I kept putting him off, because I honestly do not want to celebrate my birthday. I finally told him I didn’t want anything special on my birthday because I didn’t want to have my birthday. I don’t even want it to be acknowledged, because it’s just another reminder to me that she isn’t here with me. Last year she was in brain radiation on my birthday…she was just getting over the symptoms of the brain mets. We were dealing with the lawyer trying to get my parents’ trusts all finalized and stuff.

Last year, five days before my birthday, I had to call an ambulance at 11pm for Hub because he had an episode of paroxysmal supraventricular tachycardia (PSVT) where his heart rate was sustained up around 225 or 250bpm. They had to stop his heart twice with medication to get it reset. We went to his follow-up appointment with his cardiologist on my birthday.

Right now, I’m in pain. My arms and back and neck and shoulders hurt. I have headaches on an almost daily basis for multiple hours at a time. My hips hurt when I try to sleep. I still have nausea. I still have jaw pain. I still have anxiety over the jaw pain, though it’s not as persistent as it was in the past few weeks. I’m not sleeping much and I’m not crocheting because I hurt too much.

I don’t want to celebrate. Right now I just want the days to be days, so I don’t have to be so sad.

 

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A new character emerges

As if my life were a book. Ironic since I used to write those.

I’ve been hiding in plain sight recently. My world has seemed to orbit around my food issues (another blog) and my father. And then the election. Oh God, the election. Please, another day.

Today is for my dad. My father was born eleven months after my mom, so he is almost a year younger than she. And yet, he has always seemed to be older than her, and his health has not been the greatest. He–like me and others in my family–has been overweight all of his adult life. He never had a good diet, he never exercised regularly, and for as long as my mother has known him, he has smoked a pipe. He’s been through cigarette phases and on occasion would enjoy himself a cigar, but his vise is really his pipe. As kids we had to live with it, though my mother always hated it and the smell of it makes me physically sick. When my parents had a house built in the late eighties, my  mother told my father he was no longer allowed to smoke in the house. He had to sit in the garage or on the porch he insisted the house have. He was only allowed to smoke in HIS vehicle and then only if he was alone. When they had their current house built, the rules were the same. Still now, on days when the wind is blowing just right and I’m outside, I can smell his pipe smoke coming from his garage. I still hate it. He has a smoker’s cough, a wheeze when he breathes, and his teeth are in terrible condition. His skin is bad, he has zero taste buds and absolutely no sense of smell.

In his sixties, my father was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes, high blood pressure, and high cholesterol. He didn’t care and he didn’t take medication and he didn’t change any of his habits. To this day, he doesn’t stay on medication. He takes it randomly and is convinced that the pharmaceutical companies are all out to make a buck and none of the medications do anything. He also randomly goes on and off all kinds of herbal “medications” with the expectation that they will solve all his issues. And again, has no consistency with them. He reads every alternative medical article and pamphlet he can and spouts his knowledge to whoever will listen.

Now, he is not really able to manage his sugar levels, despite attempting to go back onto his meds “consistently”. He will randomly announce he is off carbs and only eating protein, then not follow through. He will randomly announce he is off meat and only eating cheese and fish and bread. And pasta. He won’t follow through on any of that, either. And he has diabetic neuropathy in his feet. Very very bad neuropathy. He is in pain every day, often severe, and has been for at least four or five years. One time he told me he figured losing a foot was bound to happen to him. He was resigned to it. It hasn’t happened yet, but he’s not very actively doing much to keep that at bay.

My father retired from his job in the fall of 2003. Since that time, his life’s passion has been to read and smoke in his garage. When my mother got sick, he took care of her. His life then revolved around doctor’s appointments and combing through medical or alternative medical articles on the web. When Mom died, he crawled into his book and his pipe and refused to come out. Randomly he would tell me that he didn’t want to leave the house anymore. Randomly he would tell one of my brothers that he was crying “a lot”. So when my father had a medical issue crop up and he made an appointment to see his doctor, I went with him. I didn’t ask, I just showed up at his car the morning of his appointment about ten minutes before he was due to leave. When we saw his doctor, he told her that he was crying a lot and really didn’t want to leave the house. She asked him some questions and they talked–and he cried–and they talked more. And she asked him to try Lexapro. And she warned him it would take 4-6 weeks before he might feel any change, but that it would help him manage the depression until he was able to manage it himself. Or until it “lifted”, since she felt it was due to my  mother’s death. He promised her he would try it, and we went home with the pills.

Two weeks after starting the pills, he told us that he was feeling a bit better. He was doing more and talking more and crying less. Three weeks after starting the pills, he abruptly quit them without telling anyone, including his doctor. When I found out, I asked why and he told me he didn’t like the way he felt on them. But he couldn’t explain that any further. I asked him to alert his doctor–which he did by email–and he said if he felt like the depression was a problem, he would go back on the pills. Which we all knew was a damn lie.

It’s been about three months since he took the pills. Roughly two months since he stopped. He has admitted to me since then that he feels responsible for my mother’s death (which is not rational), and he told my brother (I learned later) that he stopped taking the pills because it made the feeling of loss and pain go away. And he wanted to feel the pain of my mother’s death. He was punishing himself for her death. And more recently, he has told me that he isn’t enjoying his books anymore. The one place he was able to hide and pass the hours every day. So when he had another health issue come up, I did the repeat dance and showed up at his car the morning of his appointment. And in the doctor’s office, after he went through the current medical issue, I brought up the depression and his loss of enjoyment of his books.

The doctor asked him to try another medication, which he refused. I didn’t know at this point why he stopped the meds and he refused to tell the doctor, only saying he didn’t like how he felt on it and “didn’t know” what that meant. After explaining to my dad about the chemicals in his brain being responsible for the depression, the doctor suggested he go see a mental health professional, possibly one that would be able to help him find a better medication for him. He said he’d think about it–after he cried and I cried–then refused to discuss it any further. My brother and I confronted him the next night about doing something, seeing someone, SOMETHING, and he refused to talk to us. He later told another of my brothers that “nothing is wrong with my brain!” in response to conversation about the depression being related to his brain chemistry.

I am feeling so helpless. Although his cognition isn’t great–which he has admitted–he is still in his right mind. We can’t force him to do anything. But I can’t give up and let him just spend his last years rotting away. I’m not asking him to be someone he’s not, but I hate that he has lost even his love of his books. Today I made an appointment to see our family Rabbi so that my brother and I can go speak to him. He’s been a part of our lives for over 45 years, and he’s a trained counselor. I hope he might have some suggestions, and/or consider helping us talk to my father.

I knew my mother’s death would be hard on my father. I had no concept of what that really meant IRL.

 

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And then I cried…

I saw T for my appointment on Friday and I pretty much cried through the whole thing. She tried to reassure me that what I’m dealing with is grief, not a major depressive episode. It’s also combined with where I am in my life, which is kind of lost and stagnant. I’ve been struggling with finding my purpose–or reclaiming it if that’s the case–and she thinks that is making me feel worse. I miss my mother. I miss her love and her support and her company. I am tired of being unhappy with who I am. I’m tired of being unhappy with how I feel about myself. I cried for all of it. I cried on the way home, too. I felt weepy most of the day. Then again, I’ve felt weepy pretty much all the time the last couple of weeks.

When I woke up Friday morning, I found that our upstairs air conditioning had frozen over. Again. For the last three (or four maybe) years, the system has frozen over at least twice during the summer season. Initially, we were told finding a small leak was near to impossible, and we should just refill the refrigerant unless is became an on-going issue. When it became an on-going issue, they tried to find the leak but couldn’t. We’ve been through several different HVAC companies, and no one could find a leak. We were told it was probably in the attic in the line that runs between the outside unit and the inside unit. The only way to “fix” that was to replace it entirely. Entirely$$$$. So the second time it froze over this season, we tried a “sealant” along with a dye, to try to trace the leak. No surprise based on our luck, the sealant didn’t work and Friday morning I saw the ice building up on the system again. Talk about wanting to cry. Not only does it mean more bullshit to deal with, but it also means no air conditioning on our bedroom level. And no a/c means no sleep. If I try to sleep on the main level where there IS a/c, I can’t get comfortable and therefore no sleep. The HVAC guy came back today (that was three days with no a/c in our bedroom) and told us that he found evidence of leaks in the unit inside the house. So now we have to scrape up money to pay for that repair…the part was barely under warranty (somehow we got stuck with a crap warranty for five years instead of ten) but labor is never under warranty. I had to go find some kind of proof of when the unit was purchased because basically we are at 4 years and 11 months. Stupid jerks. Now it’s a couple of days before the part is in and then we schedule for the work to be done.

We’ve been sleeping with the windows open at night, since the weather has cooled off somewhat. Unfortunately, that means my allergies get triggered. And the upstairs gets humid, because air movement is limited. We have NO cross-breeze possible in our bedroom. Boo. I have summer allergies and I have mold allergies. So no matter what, I’m feeling it and now I feel like my bedroom is just coated in allergens from having the windows open. Ugh.

I feel like I’m a walking vat of injury and tears and pain. My stomach is giving me trouble. Not in the normal way, but in a spot of pain that is showing up in a weird place. It’s not an area I’ve had pain in before…and I can’t identify what is causing it. I hate that. I’m having some other uncomfortable pain in uncomfortable places that aren’t really proper to discuss with people. I’m not sure why, but it’s just more to irritate me. There’s a spot on my back shoulder that’s getting rubbed by my bra, and even when I try to sleep it’s irritated.

What’s wrong with me these days? I’ve known my body has been falling apart for years, but this is a whole new slew of stuff. Unfamiliar stuff.

I’m tired. I want to go to bed. The room is too hot for that during the day, even if I were to do it.

I’m whiny. Don’t listen to me. I’m done.

 

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Silent

I have been silent. Sad and silent.

In my head, I have written about five blogs. I compose them, I edit them, I reconsider what I want to say, I think about it some more…and then I don’t actually write them. They might still happen, but they might not.

I have been dealing with more pain recently, which hasn’t improved my daily outlook. My husband had been dealing with work issues. My brother is just starting a (contentious) divorce. My father has been to and from some of his doctors to make sure he doesn’t have any kind of advancing dementia (which he does not, thankfully).

I am the (supposed) steady in the family. Despite my issues, my family still comes to me for support, reassurance, an ear…etc. No matter how I’m feeling, I still seem to be the one they all gravitate toward. Even my few (and far away) friends seem to feel that way.

I feel sad, ya’ll.

I’ve been dreaming about my mom. I had a long dream about her, then I thought I woke up (and I really believe I was awake) and I had a vision of my mom standing next to my bed looking down at me. It was so vivid and so real I could have reached out to touch her. But it was extremely upsetting for me because she was looking sickly, with her post-chemo peach-fuzzy kind of hair, and she said to me, “I’m tired and aching…”

I emailed T that very morning and although she helped me make sense of the dream, the vision still bothers me. I don’t know why she came to me that way, in that manner, and with that particular message. It’s been over a week and I still can’t get past it.

I still hope to write the blogs that need to be written. I want to think that what I’m dealing with is only grief, but I feel like I’m having some mild depression. I don’t want to do much of anything. I do what needs to be done. I fake what that world expects to see. But in the end, I just feel sad.

I know I feel overwhelmed, and so some of that might be the cause for feeling kind of shut down. Hub has been sick, on top of everything else, and my pain has been escalating. So that all makes for harder days and nights, especially since the pain interrupts my ability to get as much sleep as I normally do–which isn’t even that much.

For no reason, some pictures I took one evening last week.

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Who do I do for?

Maybe about a month ago, I said to my father, “What do you think about having the family over for a Memorial Day barbecue?” He agreed, and although I offered to host the dinner at my house, he said it was fine to have it at his house.

I made this suggestion for a couple of reasons.

  1. My aunt and uncle (my mother’s brother and sister-in-law) have been trying to get us to come to gatherings at their house or their daughter’s house since my mother’s passing two months ago. In both cases, I declined, as I was not ready. My father went to the mother’s day gathering, and came back saying it was very difficult for him.
  2. My brother has told me how he wants “the family to stay together” and that he doesn’t want to give up “family get-togethers” even though Mom is gone. (I have so much more to say about this but…enh)
  3. I don’t want my aunt and uncle to become disconnected from my father and/or from the rest of my siblings and me.
  4. I wanted my father to have something to look forward to

I figured this would be very low key, so I didn’t make a big thing of it. I invited my aunt and uncle, my cousins, a friend of my mother’s, and my local siblings. I told people to bring any kind of side dish that they liked to eat, but that we would provide the grilled meats. I didn’t think about anything until I needed to buy the food a few days before, and even then I kept pushing it out of my head.

I thought Memorial Day would be easier because we don’t associate the “holiday” with my mother. In past years, if we ever did anything for Memorial Day, it was an impromptu cook-out at my house mostly because Hub wanted to grill anyway and sometimes my parents and brother would join us. I thought this would make everything easier.

When I went over on Sunday to bring some food ahead of time to my father’s house, I asked him if he wanted help setting up in the dining room, which is where we normally host more than the immediate family. But he wanted to have everyone in the kitchen. We went through a bit of work to make that fit, but he seemed to want to stay away from the formal dining room where we usually have gatherings. I understand, so I didn’t discuss it with him, we just did what we needed to for the kitchen.

There was a snafu with the grill, but we managed to get food grilled and put out on the island for people to serve themselves and then sit at the table together. I felt very disconnected from everyone. I spent most of the two hours disengaged and quiet. No one seemed inclined to hang around after eating.

My aunt–the one who can’t seem to get past her own grief for her mother–put her hand on my shoulder on the way out and said, “It’s a good first step, right?” I wanted to punch her in the throat. Instead I said, “thanks” and turned away.

We cleaned up, then everyone pretty much left. When I thought my father was okay, Hub and I went home. I was a bit annoyed at the “side dishes” that people brought (someone brought a little package of pre-cut fruit, someone else brought a little bowl of cut veggies, and someone brought a bowl of cole slaw), but I really just wanted the evening to be over.

I didn’t want to have this get-together. I didn’t want to be the one arranging it. I didn’t want to be there. I hated the whole thing. I didn’t do any of it for me. If it had been my preference, I would have not had any get together. I’m not ready. I’m not interested. It hurts too much.

My brother, the one who has said how upset he is that the family isn’t getting together? He’s the one who hardly ever spent time with my parents. He’s the one who doesn’t stop by and visit, or instigate any get-togethers. He never hosts anything at his house. He never arranges any family get-togethers. He never even calls to say “we’re heading out to dinner, want to join us?” He says he is going to invite our father out to eat to stay in touch with him, but he hasn’t done it. My brother’s wife saw our mother maybe once in the last difficult two months of her life. She just didn’t care. My brother suffers from major depression. He is being treated for major depression. I want to do what I can to help him. I don’t know how he is helping himself in this arena of staying in touch with the family. I think he is relying on me to do it, and I don’t want to do it. If he wants the family to continue to get together, he’s going to have to participate. Because I’m not going to step into my mother’s shoes and take over. It isn’t me. And I don’t want the things he wants. If he wants those things, he’s going to have to do them.

My father…I don’t know what he wants. I don’t think he ever HAD to do anything with regards to family gatherings, so he just doesn’t do it. If I don’t do it, will the family slow fall away from each other? My father doesn’t want to do anything. He never had to pay bills–my mother did that–so he has no clue what money he has or doesn’t have. He doesn’t know about his the house or car insurance. He doesn’t want to know. My brother–the one who lives with him–is basically doing all the bills. And the grocery shopping. And the cooking.

I basically just spent the last ten minutes sobbing. I’ve cried myself to sleep the last two nights. Today I just feel overwhelmed and completely overemotional and this isn’t even the first time I’ve cried today. Apparently not the last, either. As soon as I catch my breath, I just start again.

I miss my mother so much I can’t even… I just can’t even. Period.

I’m in pain. My body hurts. I saw my massage therapist but it didn’t help and she’s going on maternity leave so I won’t see her for months. I’m not sleeping. The acupuncture isn’t helping. My health anxiety is suffocating me. I haven’t been able to write anything (my books or anything other than the blogs) for years. Since before my mother got sick. I can’t figure out the paperwork for my mother’s bonds.

I feel like … nothing. I don’t want to engage with anyone. I don’t want to do anything. I don’t have the energy to be the person everyone else seems to need me to be. Not right now. Not today.

 

 

 

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