Happy whatevereth of January

I miss the sun. I miss being on the world's third-largest ocean liner with nothing to do except relax and soak up the sun, miles and miles away from this cold and snow and cold.  

Seriously, why did my parents have to settle so far north?  They got married in Oklahoma.  Right now, the weather in the town where they got married? It's 50ºF with a "feels like" of 66ºF and a 70% chance of rain. 

Where I am right now, it's 35ºF with a "feels like" of 28ºF, mostly cloudy,  and a cold front is moving in. I mean, a COLD front. As in, on Monday the high is supposed to be -4ºF.  Did you see the negative sign in front of that 4?  That means four degrees below zero.  Zero means nothing; how can the temperature be less than nothing?!

And on the same token, this is what we call Bragging Weather. I'd rather have sub-zero weather than 10 feet of snow.  Sub-zero weather is what the Midwest is known for.  We just throw on another layer or two and go about our lives.  Of course we complain, because we don't like living where the air hurts our faces.  But we deal with it and move on.

Anyhoo . . . next week I'm finally taking my car to the shop to be repaired. Or didn't I tell you about that? Right before Christmas, I hit a deer on the way to work.  I'm fine, just mad.  The deer was fine, it lost some fur and ran away.  My Equinox has a big gaping wound and I'm super embarrassed to be seen driving it.  Alright, maybe not a "big" gaping wound, but it's missing part of the grill and I really am embarrassed to be driving it the way it is, but it really was right before Christmas and then after that we went on our trip, and since we got back we've both been sick with this upper respiratory crap, and it's only been the last day or two that I've started feeling human again so yesterday I finally made the appointment to take it to the body shop.  Is it weird that they want me to take all of my personal belongings out of it before I drop it off? I have a lot of personal belongings in there.  Is it weird that I have a lot of personal belongings in my vehicle? I spend a lot of time there, I guess.  I know what I'm doing this weekend.  

And another thing! This whole nonsense of being sick every time we get back from a big trip -- that has got to stop.  8 years ago after our trip to Hawaii, when I came back with strep and bronchitis, I chalked it up to 12 hours straight in an airport and then 8+ hours in an airplane.  But now? Coming back from an awesome, relaxing cruise and being sick for 2 weeks? No. Ain't nobody got time for that.  Ain't nobody got PTO for that, either.  I wanted to start 2025 being rested and relaxed and ready to kick ass in the new year, not hacking up a lung and being dead on my feet after 4 hours of work, then coming home and crawling into bed at 6pm every night.  Thank God I'm starting to feel better, and also Thank God the house was clean before we left because I have not had the energy or motivation to do anything since we got back! All my Christmas decorations are up still.  I don't care, I'll probably leave them up for a while now.  Or I might take them down this weekend, too, once I remove all my personal belongings from the Nox.  

But seriously.  I guess, besides drugging myself up to avoid motion sickness on our next trip, I'll have to throw in some immune-boosting crapola, too.  

I might be in a cheerier mood today if the sun was shining.  Or I might not be, because it's Friday and I don't like Fridays.  Still.  It's been almost six months, and I still don't like them.  Is that ever going to change? Rhetorical question.  You can't answer it. I can't answer it. No one can answer it.  I would guess that Fridays will probably never be the same for me ever again, although even now some are worse than others.  

I have really been missing my horse lately. I know I have another horse, but, her and I don't click like Nicker and I did.  I think I've talked about that in here before and, anyway, it makes me sad to think about so I'm going to change the subject now.  Also, I can't ride Shasta, and that's part of what I've been missing, which is funny because even if Nicker was still alive I probably wouldn't ride her because she'd be like going on 32 years old and I hadn't ridden her in a few years anyway.  Oh, well. Next topic!

I should write about my sister one of these days.  How she hasn't talked to me in person since about, what, 2012? I have replayed that last interaction in my head so many times, trying to figure out what I did wrong.  It was after her oldest son's graduation party, we (my hubby and son and I) were leaving and as we were walking out to our vehicle, she asked me -- and forgive me because I don't remember the exact way she worded it. It was an awkward question and I didn't know it would be such a turning point in our relationship.  But she asked me something along the lines of what I thought of her boyfriend or if I approved of him, or something like that.

Now, let me explain something here.  Her boyfriend was at the party.  Let me explain something else: my brother-in-law was also at the party.  My brother-in-law meaning her husband.  We had all ("we" meaning me, my husband, and my parents) been told ahead of time that the boyfriend would be there but under the guise of being a family friend or something like that, because my sister didn't want her husband to know he was her boyfriend.  Totally and completely awkward and just...weird.  All of it.  

So when she asked if I approved or something like that, I told her, No.  Which was obviously not the answer she wanted.  Up until then, she had been wanting me to meet her boyfriend so badly. She even said she wanted my approval.  Up until then I did as I had been taught and just ignored it and pretended it would go away if I didn't acknowledge it...but then I broke.  I couldn't do it anymore.  No, I told her.  I don't approve.

And I didn't.  I didn't like the guy. He was creepy.  I didn't like lying in front of my brother-in-law and my whole family.  Even if "everybody knew anyway" (except my brother-in-law, or maybe he did, IDK).  If she wanted to date, fine; get divorced first! Don't effing use your kids as pawns (which I knew she was doing to some extent but wouldn't find out until much later that she was doing this to such a degree, it makes me feel horrible for not being a better person and rescuing my nephews)  For weeks after that we "discussed" this over emails and texts, she kept saying I didn't understand and we should get together so she could explain and I kept saying OK, let's do that, then, but she kept coming up with reasons why she couldn't get together at the days and times I'd suggest, and then pretty soon she just started blocking me and . . . here we are.

And I have to go back to work now. HA! I'll write more about this saga later. Because there is so much more I need to get out of my puny human brain...

I thought of something funnier than 24.

Where were YOU when it flipped from 2024 to 2025?

I was on a boat -- one of my happy places.  Next to my hubby.  Somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean.  Technically not even in the United States, I believe.  I probably would have slept right through the official changing of the new year, except we heard the cheers of several thousand people a few decks below us, and we were both half-awake enough to mumble, "Happy New Year" to each other before we rolled over and went back to sleep.  

Okay, so it was more than "a boat".  It was a 17-deck cruise ship that was once the world's largest passenger ship, the Allure of the Seas.  And we were likely sailing somewhere in the Bahamas at that time.  Our first cruise, our first time out of the country, what a way to ring in the new year, I tell ya!

This was kind of a test.  See, all of my life I have been one of those "prone to motion sickness" people.  I can't do amusement park rides.  I always had to call "shotgun" because I couldn't ride in the backseats of cars.  Sometimes even standing on docks would make me nauseated.  We went to a waterpark once, and I got sick after going down a freaking slide.  I had pretty much figured I would never ever get to go on a cruise ever in my life because there would just be no way. 

Then we got our little fishing boat.  And I love fishing.  I love going out in boats.  I really do.  And I used to get nauseated at first, but I just kept taking the medication and using the Sea Bands and everything until I started not needing them anymore.  And we started flying more places, and that started being alright, too.  I mean not completely alright -- but manageable. Instead of needing to take three meds just to handle a short flight across the country, I can do it with just one now.  And it's more prophylactic than anything.  I haven't actually thrown up on an airplane in over 27 years.  Go, me!

Fast forward to last year, we started talking about what to do for our 50th birthdays and also our 30th anniversary (50th birthdays were last year, 30th anniversary will be next year).  The hubby suggested a European cruise for our anniversary, and then he suggested that we take a "test cruise" this year to see if I could handle it.  Sure, I said.  Let's try it.  Yeah, I was less than enthused at the time; to be honest, I was less than enthused about anything in 2024.  I wasn't sure if I'd actually be able to handle a cruise, and I have never actually thought about going on a Caribbean vacation, so when he booked us a cruise to the Bahamas, I was feeling way more out of my element than anything else.  

But oh my gosh. It happened, and I was armed with scopolamine patches and ondansetron tablets and sea bands and diphenhydramine and it could not have gone better! The only time I felt nauseated was the night before we set sail when I ate too big of a deli sandwich for supper and then layed down to sleep almost immediately afterward.  Not once on the ship did I feel an iota of motion sickness.  I didn't even wear the sea bands most of the time, and I only took the Zofran when we were actually moving.

I feel like I'm over-reacting but this is also huge for me.  I'm not going to go out and start hitting up amusement parks or anything, but...it's pretty freaking awesome not to be motion sickness' bitch anymore.

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Oh yeah, and now we've traveled to another country, blah blah blah. But it didn't really feel like it. The Bahamas is very touristy and we didn't go very far away from the ship or the pier.  We didn't sign up for any shore excursions, just in case I wasn't feeling well.  And honestly, we both needed to just chill and rest and do nothing anyway.  I got a nice tan, that I now have to hide under layers of clothing because it's freaking cold here in the tundra, but that's okay. It was so nice to have nothing to do but just lay in the sun and warm up like a cold-blooded reptile.  There were way too many other people but at the same time, it was nice to be anonymous among them. Except for the fact that we were all packed together in the same relatively small area and now I've got this nasty cough that I can't seem to shake, and an odd rash on my arm that reminds me that the loungers I loved so much were definitely not disinfected between users.  YAY!

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In other news, not much. I'm back to work full-time now, no more day-off-during-the-week-to-spend-with-Mom.  Feeling bittersweet about that.  It will be an adjustment for all of us, but, it wasn't meant to be a permanent arrangement anyway.  I'll still go over and help her out, and spend the night at her place, but after I'm done with work or on my WFH days.  

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Don't think I missed the fact that the 5-month milestone passed while I was gone.  It's weird.  Almost 6 months.  Almost half a year.  That seems like so long and yet, not.  I've never gone this long without seeing my Dad before.  Most of the time I feel numb when people ask "How are you doing?" and things like that, but if someone were to ask me a specific question about my Dad, I would absolutely lose it.  I saw a meme on FB that said something like, Don't ask me how I'm doing, ask me to share one of my favorite memories with you -- or something along those lines.  And that made me think -- No, don't do that! I will definitely break down in front of you if you do that.  

I unjoined all the "grief" groups I had joined on FB because it was just too much, seeing all that on social media all the time.  I don't know if that's avoidance or protection or healing or none of the above, but it just gets so depressing seeing those kinds of posts all the time.  Dad wouldn't want me to sit around and be depressed because of him.  

Dad's birthday is at the end of this month.  I'm not looking forward to that.

Gotta get back to work! TTYL

 

Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin', into the future...

I think I've used that as a blog title before, but I don't care. I'm going to use it again.  

Nineteen weeks already. Wow.  Still, sometimes it seems like it's been longer and sometimes it seems like it was just yesterday.  

Speaking of yesterday, I had a lot of time to think because I was home fighting off a virus.  The kind that makes me feel miserable and achy and feverish, but that I can usually knock out if I can just stay in bed for a day.  Which is what I did.  But one can actually only sleep so much, so I had a lot of time to think, too, like I said.

And one thing I kept thinking about is my sister.  Now, I'm not going to start the whole story from the beginning here, because I don't have all day to write this, but I've been trying to decide how to start writing about this whole debaucle.  I think I'll just start where I am and fill in where/when necessary.  

The thing I kept thinking about yesterday was that, you know, for the last 4 months or so -- actually, even longer than that; I'd say it's been the last 5 years or so -- the core of my anger toward her hasn't been the fact that she won't talk to me anymore.  No, what gets me the most is the way she has been treating our parents.  And lately, the way she has treated and continues to treat her children, as well.

I'm not here to flex (did I say that right? lol) or brag that I'm so great because I'm selfless like that or anything.  As far as I know, she doesn't talk to me anymore because I told her that I disagreed with her decision to have a boyfriend when she was still married to her first husband.  I suspect that there is much more behind it than that, but that is purely speculation because she has never told me otherwise and after our last little spat (after I told her I didn't agree of her relationship status, because -- and I must repeat this louder for the people in the back -- because she asked me straight up what I thought of it) she has since refused to talk to me and has even asked my mom to stop saying my name around her. I'll save this rabbit hole for another time, because my point today is that, this doesn't matter anymore.  I've screamed, cried, laughed, prayed, prayed, and prayed some more on this one.  I've wanted to resolve it, been on the verge of apologizing so many times, and have come to my senses and said, you know what? I have nothing to apologize for.  I said what I said, and it was the truth. 

What I don't know is what my parents supposedly did to her, or what my son or my husband supposedly did to her, that made her disown all of them as well?  Seriously.  We joke that their crimes were to be related to me, but that could be the God's-honest truth for all I know. To my parents, how dare they conceive me and let me be born! Her life was perfect until then. To my husband, shame on him for meeting me and falling in love with me and marrying me!  And to my poor son, who truly is the the only innocent one here, who had the actual nerve to be borne by me!  Fools, all of you.  

I just can't believe she's done my mom like this.  She was always my mom's favorite child.  You know how parents have favorite children, right? I was my Dad's, and she was my Mom's.  And now, my Mom pretends that she's all mad at her and everything, but I can tell how hurt she is.  And yesterday I was like, why do I even care? That's none of my business.  My business is me and my sister, and I'm at a good place with that, so I should just leave it alone and let those two figure it out.  There's nothing I can do anyway.

Except I can't.  Because it just seems so wrong to ignore it.  She's my mom's first born child, ffs.  My mom complains about her but I know she still loves her and worries about her and wants to know what is going on with her.  And she wants to help her but she doesn't know how.  Because that's how moms are with their kids.  Even when their kids are in their 50's.  I'm not usually good at reading between the lines with people. I tend to take them at their word, I'm not good at picking up on subtleties or figuring out what they're not telling me.  Except in this case, I am.  It's taken me 50 years but I've finally figured out my parents, ha, ha.  

The only other thing I wanted to say today (which I wanted to say at the beginning of this post, but I couldn't remember what it was about my Dad that I wanted to say at the beginning of this post, but now I remember it and just in time to wrap this up so I can get back to work) was that, while I really do NOT miss going to the nursing home to visit my Dad, there are some days when I've had a really long and busy day at work that I really miss seeing him. Even seeing him there, at least I got to see him.  Even when he was in a bad mood, at least I got to just sit next to him and maybe hold his hand or something.  That would always make my day better.  Not anymore.  Now if I have a long and busy day at work, I get to just drive home. In crazy traffic.  It sucks.  I miss my Dad.  I miss the Dad I had 10-15 years ago, though.  Not the one with dementia and slowly declining faculties who was falling apart before my eyes.  Not the sad Dad.  Maybe that's why it doesn't feel like this is the first holiday season without my Dad -- because we haven't actually had a "normal" holiday season with my family for a while now.  Last year's definitely sucked, gathering together in a corner of the "sun room" at the nursing home, which was half-heartedly decorated with a few Christmas things.  That was probably the saddest Christmas ever. My Dad had no clue it was different than any other day.  Except that we brought him a can of beer.  :D  I'm the best daughter ever.  That is something I WILL flex on. Or about.  Or however that word is supposed to be used.

TTFN!

Now THAT is funny.

Not funny as in "ha, ha" funny, but "funny" as in it makes it look like this is an adults-only (age 18 years and up!) blog post. From dear, sweet, lil' ol' me.  <insert choirs of angels singing>

Not that I couldn't pull it off.  I can swear like nobody's business.  Get me mad about something, you'll see.  But not here.  Not now.  

We've made it to 18 weeks officially today since my Dad's last breath, and we also surpassed the official 4-month mark this week, as well.  (That was Monday, December 2nd, for those of you playing along at home.)  

A couple of observations: I did not think my Mom would have made it this far.  Seriously, the way she was talking before my Dad died and shortly thereafter, there were times I honestly thought I was going to be planning a double funeral.  Only they didn't/don't want funerals so it would have been a double non-funeral.  You get what I mean.  

And I get what she means. Who wants to live without their spouse? The person they've spent 60+ years of their life with? The person they've built their life with?  The center of their universe?  I can't even imagine what that's like.  Nor do I want to try.  

But I'm proud of her.  She's given me some scary moments (not truly scary in that I've had to call in professional help, just scary as in not knowing what I can do and then having to realize that there isn't anything I can do) but overall I think she's doing great. She's taking care of herself, doing the things she put off doing so she could be there for my Dad (like cataract surgery), taking care of her house, socializing with other people, and I've actually managed to get her out of her house and out to do a couple of new things lately.  The bottom line is, I've seen her have some truly happy moments these past few weeks, and that makes me happy, too.  

Oh! I almost forgot!  My Mom got a tattoo!!  Words I never, EVER thought I'd say.  A real, actual tattoo. The day after my Dad died, we were sitting in her kitchen ("we" being her, me, my son, my nephew, his fiancee, and I think my son's roommate was there, too? My hubby was in the living room.  My son's roommate might've been there, too. I don't remember exactly.) and I said we should go get memorial tattoos, and she agreed.  And didn't change her mind thereafter.  I think that, the day we got our tattoos (10/30/2024) was the first time I saw her look truly happy since losing my Dad.  It was awesome.  She's even planning on going back in the Spring to get another one!  Another memorial tattoo for my Dad.  But that's all she wants. Just two tattoos, and that's it.  

Anyway...yeah.  So when Mom's happy, I'm happy.  I'm not stupid enough to think that it's a permanent kind of happy for her, but I will take finding happy moments for her wherever I can get them.  

Don't worry, I'm happy at other times, too.  My point was that part of the reason I was scared for my Dad to die was because I didn't know what it would do to my Mom, or even to me.  In case you didn't know, I'm a little emotionally unstable.  This is the biggest loss I've ever had in my life.  The worst pain I've ever felt in my life.  I literally feel like I'm in a car that was racing down a winding road and flew off a cliff and burst into flames before it even hit the ground.  I didn't know if I'd stay trapped in that car as it kept rolling down the foothills, burning everything in it's path (including me) into an unidentifiable mess that no one could touch, or if I'd somehow manage to jump out like they do in the moves, and tuck and roll away from the disaster then stand up and brush the dust off my jeans and try to figure out how I'm gonna climb back up that cliff to get back on the road.  

Tuck and roll, kids. Tuck and roll.

I'm really feeling like someday soon I need to write all about my sister's role, or lack thereof, in all of this.  To do that, I'll need to tell some backstory, too.  So it will take more than just my lunch break to go into THAT little tale, ha, ha, ha.  Part of me has this...this fear? inkling? suspicion? whatever, that she actually reads this, which has been another part of my hesitation in writing it.  But another part of me cares less and less about that aspect of it with every passing second, because I. Didn't. Do. Anything. Wrong.  And if I did, maybe retelling the story here will help me see it and own up to it.  But I've replayed it a begillion times and I'm pretty sure I would've figured it out by now if it was a Me thing.  

Back in the day, I used to journal to get the confusing thoughts out of my head and to try to make sense of things I couldn't stop thinking about. That's the other reason why I need to write about my sister soon. The whole thing is frequently on my mind and it makes me so mad and frustrated and I hate feeling like that!  

Alright, enough of that for now. Gotta get back to work.  TTYL!

It's beginning to look a lot like f*ck this!

I shouldn't complain, because we really don't have much snow...like maybe two inches? But we're currently under a "snow squall warning" which is definitely not something I recall hearing very often.  All I know is that it's super windy out, and I'm thankful that today has been a WFH day! 

I guess I stopped updating weekly almost 8 weeks ago now.  I kind of needed the break. Not that I don't still know how many weeks it's been since my Dad died, but I needed a break from making myself even sadder by pointing it out so publicly every week.  I don't think I even posted the links to the last post on my FB because...I mean, it's hard to explain. Because the support and hugs and prayers and kind words and thoughts are all definitely very much appreciated, for sure. But sometimes, after 9 or 10 weeks of it all, you just kinda get numb to it, you know? You've long since given up on finding the "proper" response because there really isn't one.  Just like there really isn't a "proper" thing to say to someone who has lost a loved one.  There are the socially-accepted things to say and ways to react to what has been said, but none of it ever feels "right" or "proper", at least it never has to me.  Telling someone that you're sorry is weird because hey, it's not my fault they died.  It's not your fault, either.  Unless it was.  In which case, sorry definitely wouldn't cut it, I'm sure, but that's a whole 'nother scenario. 

"How are you doing?" is still a question I'd like to avoid.  I like to answer that Yes, I'm doing.  I already knew that life wouldn't stop just because one of my favorite people in the world stopped living, so I have to stay on this ride called Life, and I intend to keep doing so to the best of my ability for as long as God sees fit to keep me here.  My good days mostly outnumber my bad days these days, I think.  I stopped keeping track.  I've now survived not just my first birthday without my Dad but also the first holiday (Thanksgiving) without him, and look at that, the world didn't implode.  Although, I did ask my PCP (primary care provider) if I could increase my antidepressant medication dose.  Hey, in all fairness, she's the one who offered it once she found out what's happened in my life since I last saw her about a year ago.  I mulled on it for a few weeks, and then took it upon myself to try increasing my dose to see if it made a difference (I didn't think it would, but gosh-darn if I didn't start feeling better after a week or so!) and since it did, I asked her to make it official.  

So, yeah. Thanksgiving. It actually turned out better than I thought it would! The actual day of Thanksgiving was pretty low-key.  It was my hubby and I, and then I went to St. Paul and brought my Mom here to spend the day with us. She kept waffling on whether she wanted to come out here or not.  As one might expect a new widow to do.  Wow, that's weird.  I'm not used to calling my mom a widow yet.  Anyway, we just hung out and watched TV and my hubby did some pork loins on the grill and later on, the boy came over. Then, on Saturday, my mom came over again and so did the boy, and so did my two nephews and their significant others, and later on our son's roommate joined us. 

But I gotta go now. I'll write more later. Maybe.
 

10 weeks.

There is one thing I did not anticipate about this whole grief thing (well, there are a lot of things, actually, but for the sake of this writing I'm just talking about the one) that has really thrown me for a loop.

I mean, you expect that holidays and birthdays and the anniversary of the death date will be difficult.  And even though I've only gone through one of those so far -- although technically I could count it as three, since my birthday, my hubby's birthday, and our anniversary all fall on the same day -- I can definitely attest that it was difficult.  You even expect the changing of the new months and the change of seasons to be difficult, and they are.  Any sign that the world is moving on with no regard to the fact that a huge part of yours is no longer here is just painful beyond words.  

What I did not anticipate is that every freaking Friday would be so hard.  And it usually starts on Thursday, because somewhere along the way I get to thinking that my Dad's last full day on earth was a Thursday, and it all goes downhill from there in my mind.  

I know I've written about this before.  Some Fridays are harder than others.  This seems to be one of them.  

I think I feel guilty because I can't help my Mom.  I want to help my Mom, and I've tried to help my Mom, but...it's complicated.  Complicated and frustrating.  I don't want to speak ill of her because she's got her own things going on that I can't even imagine right now, too.  I mean, besides the fact that even though we are both grieving the same person, our grief is NOT the same.

It sounds so simple, but I think it took me some time to realize that, too. I mean, duh.  Losing a husband of 60 years and losing a father are obviously not the same thing. You can't draw comparisons there.  Aside from the fact that who he was to each of us is completely different, and what our lives are now without him is also completely different, it's also that we are two completely different people with different personalities, coping strategies, and outlooks on the world.  We're kind of like oil and water.  Or oil and coffee.  We look the same on the outside, but in this situation, that's where the similarities end.  

But I still feel bad (and don't tell me I shouldn't because I know I "shouldn't" but I still do) because I can't help her. She wants me to help her, and I want to help her, but it's taken me about this long to realize that as much as I want to, and she wants me to, and I wish I could, I really can't.  Because I don't know how.  I only have a few tools in my toolbox, and I'm trying to show her how to use them, but if she refuses to use them, I can't do anything more.  Not only that, but I. Need. Help. Too.  

It very much reminds me of a meme I saw once that described having a baby as: Imagine that it's two days after you've been in a horrible car accident and now you have to leave the hospital, but they're also sending you home with a tiny stranger who is completely dependent on you and has also just been in a car accident.  You got this!

I guess I feel bad that I'm apparently handling this "better" than my Mom is?  But again, it was a different relationship.  I think that most adults realize that we're going to outlive our parents and are mentally prepared on some level to deal with this when it happens.  (At least, those of us who are fortunate enough to have this opportunity!)  But I'd dare to say that most of us wives don't go around mentally preparing ourselves to live longer than our husbands, even though that is the statistical likelihood.  And then if you throw in any amount of dependence (for example, having relied upon your husband for transportation your entire life because you never obtained a driver's license) or social isolation (due to social anxiety or any cause, really) and a good ol' healthy dose of denial, then yeah, it's not at all difficult to see how something that is already not easy to deal with could be even harder to deal with.  I wish I could fix all of that.  I would give my right arm to be able to fix all of that for my Mom, but I can't.  I mean, if amputation was the answer, I'd already be missing my right-sided limbs and my Dad would be alive and well and not suffering from dementia at all 😉 but it doesn't work that way.

I'm learning to understand that now and not feel so guilty about it.  But it's difficult.  

She has asked me what I think she should do. I have strongly, from the first day that Dad was enrolled in hospice, and even before then, suggested that she seek professional medical advice.  I've pushed for meds. I've pushed for Jesus. She's always argued back.  I don't want to argue about it, so I just let it go.  You asked, I answered, you don't like my answers, OK then.  You ask again later, I'm going to give you the same answers, you still don't like them, OK then.  You keep asking, I'm going to keep giving you the same answers, because these are the things that work for me, and if you still don't like my answers, I don't know what to tell you because you know what I'm going to keep telling you.  And now with my Dad gone, I don't have anyone to back me up and say Hey, maybe Tash knows what she's talking about, why don't you listen to her?  

And then out of the blue, she'll be like, I had this idea, I think I might try seeing a therapist, what do you think? and I just sit there biting my tongue like, O rly? What a grand idea, I would have never thought of that nor have I been suggesting it for the last 5 years...Yeah no, that sounds like a good idea, you should definitely do that.  Lather. Rinse. Repeat.  Then a minor inconvenience will pop up and she'll scrap the whole thing and we'll be back to square one.

It's exhausting. Almost as exhausting as it was watching my Dad decline for the last 5-10 years.  Yet again I'm watching one of my parents decline and there's nothing I can do about it, but try to be the strong, sensible, responsible one for their sake, and take everything they say with a grain of salt because I know it's not them but their disease that is talking.  Because if I tell them what they are dealing with is a disease, they don't believe me, anyway.

Brains are amazingly complex and frustrating things.  And on that note, I'm gonna sign off and get back to work, and try to trick mine into wanting to get as much work done as possible the rest of the afternoon.  Wish me luck!!

Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin', into the future...

I would be so remiss if I didn't use this image for this particular post. If my Dad has thumbs in heaven, he is definitely giving two thumbs-ups for this one!  

I mean, I don't know why he wouldn't have thumbs in heaven, because he had them on earth. But the ones he had on earth were cremated with the rest of his moral remains and are now in one of five vessels (or in any combination thereof).  And I didn't come here today to expand upon my thoughts and beliefs about what heaven is like, although believe you me, I have plenty of thoughts and beliefs to share about that topic now. And lots and lots of questions about it, too.  More than I ever would have thought possible.  It's funny, the things you don't really THINK about until a loved one dies. 

But, I digress.

Week 8 and counting.  Practically at 8.5 weeks by now, but that's okay.  That's why I said "and counting".  I didn't write on the actual week 8 day.  I spent that Thursday at my Mom's house, which is weird to say "my Mom's house" instead of "my parents' house", and I don't mean to intentionally exclude my Dad from that, but it's just a technicality.  Some days I'm the only person my Mom talks to, and I really wish there was more I could do about that.  But I've already learned an important thing about myself -- I can't fix everything.  

At the beginning of my Dad's diagnosis with dementia, I spent countless insert-amount-of-time-here beating myself up over the fact that I couldn't fix him.  I was a nurse, I was his daughter, and I was helpless.  It took me a long time to come to terms with that and realize it was okay. It wasn't my job to fix him. In the nurse v daughter battle, I'm a daughter first and foremost and always.  I can't be both.  I mean, I can, but when it comes time to only be one, and there are many times when I can only be one, I'm a daughter. And it really doesn't matter, I could've been a freakin' neurosurgeon for all it mattered, because it didn't matter.  That's the point.  All the knowledge and education and experience of anything in the world did not matter in the end.  What mattered was the love.  

So anyway, I'm having to use this now with my Mom.  My Mom is physically pretty healthy, as far as I can tell.  She doesn't like going to the doctor, so she avoids it as much as possible.  Until she broke her hip a few years ago, she hadn't been to the doctor since she birthed me.  I don't want to give too much of her personal info out here, so I won't.  But there are times now when it's like, I have to just remind myself, it's not up to me to fix things.  I can listen. I can offer advice if asked. I can, for lack of a better analogy, refer to the proper specialists when I know something is out of my wheelhouse.  But I can't and won't take on something that I know isn't my problem to fix.  Especially not when I have enough of my own problems to work on right now.  

And I pray. I pray a LOT.  God is probably tired of hearing from me, that's how much I pray.  (Kidding! I know He would NEVER get tired of hearing from me!!)  Sometimes it's full-out, stop everything I'm doing and completely and totally focus everything on praying, making sure I follow some kind of structure (addressing God, giving thanks, asking for specific blessings, ending with the Lord's Prayer).  Sometimes it's just a quick thought (Hey God, I'm kinda worried about blah-blah-blah...) or request (I just read so-and-so's message or CaringBridge post, please let them know I'm thinking about them...) or a question (Dear God, what is the point of dementia?) but I converse with God in my head an awful dang lot.  

My point was that, oh yeah, Thursday I was with my Mom and we were both in bad moods.  Me because it was almost Friday, and her because, probably the same reason, but also because she spends like the first few hours that I'm there just venting and I just let her go off because that's what she needs to do.  And I was really starting to think that I maybe shouldn't go over there on Thursdays or Fridays anymore, because those are not typically my best days and, after all, I need to look after my own mental health as well, right?  But then things start to even out and turn around and I figure, alright, I'll stay.  I did promise my Dad I'd take care of my Mom.  

But, for the first time since my Dad died, I was scheduled to work in the office on Friday.  

And you know what? That actually worked out really well.  I was in a better mood than I usually am on Fridays.  It was an alright day. 

Speaking of work, I better get back to it.  Charts still don't prep themselves.  TTFN!

I don't feel like coming up with a witty title today.

Just when I think I'm doing alright, Friday rolls around.  On Friday, everything just feels heavier and darker.  More painful and more numb at the same time, if that's possible.  Friday is the day that there is no right side of the bed on which I can awaken.  

Even on bright, warm, sunshiny days like today -- doesn't matter, in fact that's probably not helping at all since that's what it was like on the day my Dad died, too.  Hopefully it will be different when the weather is different. I don't know.  I don't like being more irritable than I've ever been in my life, ever, on Fridays, but I can't help it.  It's like, if anyone says anything at all to me, my gut reaction is, "Oh yeah? Well, my Dad died, so..."  It's literally all that is on my mind on Fridays.  Every other day of the week I do think about my Dad, but Friday is the day my mind focuses on the day he died.  Maybe I can try to change that, and start finding other things to think about him on Fridays. Maybe it's too early to try to change that yet and I need to ride this out a bit longer.  Trying to change it feels wrong.  Riding it out feels right.  I don't like feeling this way but it feels like what I'm supposed to be doing.  I mean, it's not like that wasn't a traumatizing day, or anything.  Don't get me wrong, I thank God just about every night that I got to be there for it, and as far as deaths go it was one of the most peaceful things a person could ever hope for in their, um, lives (?) . . . but deep down when you really think about it, it was still traumatic for the rest of us who were there.

But that's not what I want to talk about.  

I want to talk about the random things that have made me cry in the last two days.  Weird things.  I was driving home last night and the song "Dream On" by Aerosmith was on the radio (yes, I still listen to the radio, er ma gersh) and I was singing along because of course I was, and in the middle of it, I started crying. I have no flipping idea why.  That was my first thought when the tears started flowing.  I don't know if my Dad had even ever heard this song (although I'm guessing he probably had, at some point.)  I'd never heard him sing it, or reference it in any way.  It was definitely more my kind of music than his.  The tears stopped almost as quickly as they started, so I just shrugged it off. But, really? I couldn't figure that one out.

I know I said random "things", plural, but now I can't remember what the other random thing was. I know it was something else on the way home yesterday.  It wasn't another song.  I don't remember.  Dangit!

But yeah. I started the "Things That Made Me Cry Today" posts on FB a while ago as a self-depreciating joke, but I didn't expect it to be prophetic.  Random or not-so-random things used to make me cry every now and then when I was feeling super stressed out.  So either I'm beyond the point of super-stressed out now, or more in touch with my feelings, or something, because I cry about something almost every day.  And the "something" I cry about is usually my Dad and all the crap he had to go through with that stupid, stupid dementia.  Dementia sucks.  I have always hated the way it takes perfectly wonderful, capable, strong, proud people and turns them into shells of their former selves, and now that it's taken my Dad, I hate it even more.  It just breaks my heart into a begillion tiny shards, the memories I have of my Dad being stuck in the stupid Broda/geri chair, having to be spoon-fed stupid pureed food and wheeled everywhere and not even being able to do anything for himself.  That was worse than watching him take his last breath. When he took his last breath, it broke my heart, too, but at least I knew he was free.  He wouldn't need anyone to do anything for him ever again.  He was with Jesus at that moment -- he was whole again, he was breathing without any problems, taking nice, big, effortless breaths of clean, pure air, his heart was beating strong and rhythmically, and he was dancing in Heaven on legs that would never let him down again. 

God...I miss my Dad.

7 weeks down, the rest of my life to go.
 

Friday the 13th

"I'm not superstitious, but I am a little stitious."

 -Michael Scott, The Office

"Five is a cardinal number, four plus one."

I didn't realize "five" had a technical definition, but indeed it does. according to Dictionary.com.  

Five (5) is number used to count things, like fingers on one hand, and toes on one foot, and letters in my middle name and the hubby's first name, and the number of weeks since my Dad died as of today.

A couple of big "firsts" have passed since I last wrote in here.  We reached the first month without my Dad.  That hit me hard.  I didn't want August to end because August was the last month he was here.  Know what I mean?  September is my favorite month of the year, but this year September would be the first month of the rest of my life without my Dad.  

And my first birthday (and a milestone one at that) without my Dad.  I usually love my birthday, and probably make a bigger deal out of it than an adult should. But this year, I can honestly say I could not have cared less about it.  It really was just another day.  A day I dreaded. I've NEVER ever in the history of, well, in half a century I've never dreaded my birthday, until a few weeks ago.  

I don't know what else I was going to say today.  I've got a lot to get done today so I should probably stop sitting here trying to make myself sadder and actually try to accomplish something. TTYL!