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!

More deep thoughts...

You know how I said I don't like Fridays?

Man oh man. I don't know what happened, but last Friday night, some kind of hell-hole portal opened up. I just could not stop crying from, like, Friday at about 7pm, until . . . not sure exactly.  I eventually fell asleep Saturday night, or early Sunday morning, so, sometime then?  I was seriously in a state of tears or almost tears that whole time.  And just mad. Mad at everything.  Mad that my Dad isn't alive anymore, mostly.  Probably the "Anger" stage of grief, one part of my brain said, but then I told myself to shut up and quit trying to be so effing smart because what does it matter anyway? My Dad is gone, and I miss him so much...

And it's funny, because earlier that day I was thinking that I have been handling this all pretty well, not having any mental breakdowns, yadda yadda yadda.  Maybe I'm going to be alright. Maybe my anti-depressants are working too well. Maybe it hasn't sunk in yet.  I don't know how to let it sink in.  I think it just has to sink in on it's own.  It's been sinking in for years.  It's been years since I've been able to call my Dad and just talk to him on the phone.  It's been a few years since I've been able to have a legible conversation with him (yes, I know I said 'legible').  Of course there were happy moments in the last few years -- I will never forget going to visit him at the stupid nursing home and the way he would smile and wave at me and say, "Hi, kiddo!" or "Hi, sweetheart!".  Even if we couldn't have meaningful conversations, he knew I was there.  He knew I was there on the day he died, and the days leading up to the day he died.  

The most difficult conversation I ever had with my Dad was a monologue, lol.  It was the day he died.  A few hours before he died, actually.  We were all sitting around his bed and I just had this really strong, sudden urge to talk to him alone.  I kinda fought it, because I didn't want to be weird and make everyone leave the room, but I didn't want to say what I had to say to my Dad with everyone (or anyone else) in the room, either.  So I argued with myself for a while and thought, maybe I can just have this conversation with him telepathically, but that didn't feel right, and finally I was like -- no, I have to talk to him, and everyone else has to leave.  So I asked everyone else to leave.  And I'm not going to tell you (or anyone else) everything that I said to my Dad, because that's going to forever be between me and my Dad.  He didn't respond but I know he heard me.  I felt oddly better after that, in a way.  For a short time, anyway.  It's hard to explain.  

Anyway, so Sunday I woke up feeling like my antidepressants had kicked in again.  We went to the state fair -- something I didn't think I would have been able to do the day before.  I was looking forward to going, to being lost in a sea of people for a while, and to just walk around aimlessly and indulge in some retail therapy.  I only cried the usual daily amount (lol) which was a complete 180º difference from Saturday.  Seriously...I cried more on Saturday than I did even on the day he died.  I don't know what it was exactly, but it reached up and smacked me out of nowhere, and nothing at all was making me feel better that day. All I could do was try to hang on and go with the flow (lame pun somewhat intended) and do whatever I could or couldn't do that day, and be ever so thankful that my hubby understands what I'm going through.  Which also makes me super sad.

Seriously, though. I never realized how many people I know who "know what I'm going through" i.e. have lost a parent (or more than one parent) until recently, and that just breaks my heart, too.  That there are so many of us living with this kind of pain and sadness...it's horrible.  Talk about belonging to the club that no one wants to join! It is just so heart-wrenching.  I can't even find the words right now. It makes me sick to my stomach. I want to gather us all together into a big group hug or something, only on the condition that no one says the words "I'm sorry" or asks "How are you doing?".  There are no good, accurate replies/answers to give.  We know you're sorry -- we're sorry, too.  And if you don't know how we're doing, you really don't want to know.  I don't want to answer how I'm doing because I might be brutally honest and it might be a bad time to be brutally honest, or it might be that I've already told myself that if someone asks how I'm doing, just say "I'm ok".  On the other hand, I haven't come up with any good replacement things to say to someone who is grieving yet.  I've said the same things to people and probably will continue to do so, but I am trying like hell to find other things to say.  Because after the first three times you hear "I'm sorry," you pretty much go numb to it.  You have to, or else you will yell back something like, IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT SO STOP APOLOGIZING!!

Alright, that's enough for now. Gotta get back to work. TTYL

3; or, "I don't like Fridays..."

 

Friday used to be my favorite day of the week.

Even when I worked a crazy/non-traditional schedule and Fridays were my Mondays -- alright, maybe Friday wasn't my favorite day of the week back then, but it still always had that je ne sais quoi undertone.  That somewhat adventurous, never-know-what-to-expect sort of thing.  Then, of course, I went back to working Monday-Friday and Friday went back to signifying the end of the week, which we are conditioned to look forward to from the time we start school, because it signals the coming of the WEEKEND!  Two days off in a row! Yee-haw!!

But now...now, I don't know.  For the foreseeable future, all that comes to mind when I think of Friday, is that it marks however many weeks since I last saw my Dad.  Today, it's 3.  That does not seem like very many weeks, and it seems like a lot of time.  I don't remember the last time I went three weeks without seeing my Dad.  I miss him.  I miss the way his face would light up when he'd see me.  I miss his voice.

This week at work wasn't as bad as last week was.  This week I feel a little more human again, a little more empathetic, a little less like I want to quit nursing altogether and find a job working with inanimate objects.  I don't think I cried at work this week, at least not in front of anyone.  

My Mom and I went and picked up my Dad's cremated remains this week.  That was not nearly as difficult as I thought it was going to be!  Maybe because I've had so many pets cremated so I kind of knew what to expect, I don't know.  For some reason, it put me in a better mood, which surprised the crap out of me because I don't believe that those cremains are "my Dad" any more than I believe that cardinals are him coming to visit.  This is where I pull the science card, and maybe that's just to protect my sanity right now.  But I really honestly feel that after about 7:30pm on August 2nd, when my Dad's heart stopped beating and his lungs stopped breathing, the physical body that was lying in that bed was not him anymore.  For one thing, it looked nothing like him.  Not the way I think of him or remember him, or know that he wants to be remembered.  When the life and soul left that mortal shell of tissue and bones, that body stopped being my Dad.  Therefore, those cremated remains are not my Dad, either.  But, they mean the world to my Mom, and for lack of a better term, I refer to the package we received from the Cremation Society as "Dad's urn" or "Dad's remains" or sometimes even just "Dad" when I'm talking to my Mom.  It makes her feel better, and that's what I'm supposed to do right now.  

Me? I'm indifferent.  I'm glad he's not buried -- I do like the idea of cremation better than burial -- and there are provisions for what to do with the cremated remains, but not until both of my parents have passed. So until then, Dad's urn will live with my Mom.  Presently sitting on the side table next to her recliner in her living room.  And if you thought I was kidding when I said I was going to put googly eyes on it, I am so definitely not kidding.  Dad would want it that way.  I have big plans for "decorating" his urn over the next few weeks and months.  Heh heh heh.

That reminds me, one thing I do kind of feel bad about, is that my Mom keeps saying that she wishes he would come visit her in a dream.  I don't want to tell her that I've had lots of dreams with him in them in the last three weeks.  The first one was just like a day or two after he passed.  A few of them have been horrible nightmares where he's actually died again in the dream -- thankfully I haven't had any of those for about a week or so now, because they're terrible.  And it's not like he's "come to me" in my dreams with some beautiful message about how everything is going to be okay and blah blah blah, they were just, like, regular dreams where things are happening and then he's just there and I'm like, oh, hey.  In one dream, we were grocery shopping.  In another, we were hanging out in the backyard on a summer day (along with, like, every Boxer I've ever had, and even Nicker).  They weren't like, "HERE I AM FROM THE DEAD WITH AN IMPORTANT MESSAGE FOR YOU!"  They were just, you know, I just wake up and I'm like...awwwww. That was a nice dream. But I do feel bad that my Mom hasn't had any dreams like that yet.  I don't know why I feel bad, it's not like it's something I can control or anything.  

Alright, alright, alright.  I should dry my eyes and get back to work. 

TTYL!

It's been two weeks since you looked at me...(lame BNL semi-reference)

I feel like I have a whacked sense of humor.

But these days, I feel like I have a whacked sense of everything.

I have to be careful because I'm writing this at work. And while I currently have my little office (occupancy: 3) to myself for the day, the walls are thin and I do need to integrate with others at some point in the near future.  My water bottle is almost empty, and I have a meeting to attend in about half an hour.  It's an in-person meeting, but I could attend virtually if necessary.  We'll see.  And not just dependent upon my emotional state, ha, ha.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

It's odd. That's the best word I can come up with for it right now: odd.  This stage of my life.  A while back I started a blog entry which I intended to be somewhat of a series about the five stages of grief, and how people who have loved ones with dementia go through all of those stages frequently.  

I never really thought of myself as someone with a scientific or analytical mind, but I've realized lately that I really am.  Sometimes I want a concrete explanation for what is happening.  That's not always possible, of course, but I like to try.  Sometimes I'm just not content with, "Because God says so."  

I do know that I've always preferred to see things in writing.  Long before I ever knew there were such things as different learning styles, I did so much better retaining information that I could read or write.  True story -- one time, to pass a chemistry class (in another lifetime when I thought I wanted to be a medical assistant) that was all lecture and I was having the hardest time grasping the information, I practically copied the entire textbook (calm down, it was more of a workbook than a textbook) in my own hand into two notebooks so I would retain enough information to pass the final.  It worked!  I didn't become a medical assistant for various other reasons, and I ended up taking another chemistry class about 15 years later when I was in nursing school (and I passed that one without having to literally rewrite the curriculum).  

That's probably my most extreme example, but I did take a LOT of notes in nursing school.  And I'm still a heavy note-taker today.  But I digress, because I also like to see things in print-writing, too.  It makes it seem more official.  Proof that Something Happened, if you will.  

Which is probably why I've obsessively read and re-read and re-re-read my Dad's online obituary ever since it was published yesterday.  Seriously.  Obsessed.  Even though I know the words (since I wrote them), I still stare at them -- the names and dates and details with which I am ever so intimately familiar, as they are also the fabric of my very being -- as if I'm seeing them for the first time.  I read the words and what they're saying and I feel like I need to pry open a hole in my teeny-tiny brain so the reality of what I'm reading can trickle down deep into my core.  

Because I still feel like I'm reading about it happening to someone else.  I recognize those names and dates and details, and this is published on the internet for the whole world to see (and you know they can't post something on the internet unless it's true!!), and it's posted by an actual legitimate funeral home, but it's just, you know, another obituary.  It's a picture of my Dad from long before I was born, and it sort of resembles him, but it's not how I remember him, so it's not, like, striking me in the heart or anything.

I've been told that no matter what I feel, it's not wrong.  And I hope that's true, because I often feel like I'm not feeling sad enough.

And then I think about all the times over the last 5 or so years that I've just completely lost it, crying myself to sleep, or crying on the entire drive home from the cities, or breaking down in tears just trying to update someone on how my Dad was doing, and I feel like I've been mourning for a very long time. Because that's how dementia works. Dementia is the devil. Dementia steals your person away so slowly and subtly that by the time their physical being is depleted, they are but a sliver of the person they once were.  

So that's where I am right now.  There isn't this sudden, horrible change in my life yet.  My most recent memories of my Dad, unfortunately, are of the last year of visiting him at the nursing home and keeping mental track of his physical and cognitive decline (the big reason why I also obsessed over reading his medical records -- seeing it in writing helped me process it and made it more true. I didn't have to rely on my own judgement).  I know highly suspect it would be different if he had been strong and active and coherent until the day of his passing, but that's not how it was. 

I hated going to that nursing home. I hated everything about visiting him there.  It took every ounce of everything I had to force myself to walk in there and see him. And he was literally in the room that was farthest away from the entrance, so we had to walk through many hallways to get to him. All the different sights and smells and the looks of all the other people, not so much the other residents but the staff.  Everything about that place just felt so hopeless.  I don't doubt that part of that was because I knew he wasn't going to leave there alive.

Alright, I'm gonna sign off for a bit. Time to help my Mom take care of all of the crappy stuff one must do after one's person has become deceased.  TTFN!

August 2, 2024 = the end.

I've just finished writing my Dad's obituary.

I thought it would be a lot harder to write than it was.  Not that it was easy, but I didn't cry while writing it.  

My Mom read it and approved.  It's, like, a page long (in Word).  She said she would've written maybe three sentences, so she's glad I wrote it.  My parents have always thought I was a gifted writer, so I have no doubt that my Dad would have wanted me to write this final summary of his life on earth now. I'm glad I wrote it, too.  I do, after all, have perfectionist tendencies, and wanted to make sure this was perfect.  I didn't trust this task to anyone else.

I'll post the link on FB when it's available, which will probably be tomorrow.

So yeah.  I keep repeating the words over to myself, the same way I used to repeat, "My Dad is in a nursing home" or "My Dad is in hospice" but it seems even more surreal than anything I've ever faced in my life. So far.  "My Dad died."  On Friday, August 2, 2024 at about 7:30pm.  It sucked.  It continues to suck.  

I am overcome by an immense feeling of relief that I don't have to worry about him anymore, or worry where I will be when I get "The Call".  I truly rejoice in the fact that he is no longer suffering.  I'm so very glad that our terrible journey with dementia is over.  Dementia has been stealing my Dad from me for so long, as I've documented here, that this step just feels like another smack upside the head.  One that doesn't hurt my Dad anymore.  I'm glad to never have to go to that nursing home again.  

My Dad's last words to me were on Wednesday, July 31.  Sometime in the afternoon, I don't know for sure.  I was getting ready to leave for a little bit, I don't remember those details. But I gave him a hug and kissed his cheek and looked him right in the eyes -- his eyes were open at the time, or what counted as "open" at the time, but he looked right back at me and I told him I loved him.  And he said, "I love you, too."  I mean...I had only hoped and prayed that those would be his final words to me, when the time came.  I knew then that it was "the time" -- the time for his last words to me, probably the last time he'd look me in the eye (it was).  And I don't care what anyone says, he knew it was me.  No one has said he didn't know it was me, I'm just saying -- he knew.  He might have been in the final stages of dementia and gorked out of his mind on lorazepam and morphine, but he knew it was me.  Of this I have absolutely no doubt.

So now, I'm staying a few days at my Mom's house to provide emotional support and help her get some things done.  The only difference is that our plans don't involve going to the nursing home to visit Dad.  And Mom is a LOT crabbier than usual, but who can blame her?!  I used to try to keep things upbeat but now I just settle for not contributing to making them worse.  

Oh, well. I'm gonna sign off for now.  I don't feel like getting into anything too deep, because I haven't cried really hard today and I'd kinda like to keep it that way.  Good night, y'all.

What it's like

You never know when it might be the last time you see someone. Right?  Honestly.  

It's just a little more apparent when the person you're seeing is on hospice.

And barely responds to anything anymore.

And sometimes barely even opens their eyes when you visit them.

It often makes you wish that the nice people doing their job at the skilled nursing facility where the person is residing would just quit going through the motions of getting the person out of bed and into the Broda chair (we used to call them geri chairs back when I was a CNA) just to transport them to the table where other nice people -- or sometimes the same nice people -- mindlessly shovel pureed food into their mouths, or transport them down to the shower room to give them a shower that will wipe them out for the rest of the day, or transport them to sit with the other people in front of a TV.  It doesn't even really matter where you transport them to because they will just "sleep" anyway.  You don't even know if it's sleeping or unconsciousness anymore, but you suspect it's the latter.  Anyway, you wish they wouldn't bother doing that, because what's the point? They're not enjoying it. Any of it. 

What's the point in parading him around as if he's actually doing things? As if he's "getting up" in the morning and participating in activities?  As if he has a daily schedule?  As if any of it makes a G-D difference to him anymore??  

It pisses me off.  My Dad has no quality of life. He hasn't for a long time. I know this.  I know that his current "schedule" is purely for the benefit and convenience of others.  That's what pisses me off.  I'm not exactly sure why.  I want to believe that, even though he's unaware most of the time, that keeping somewhat of a regular schedule is even a little beneficial for him.  And if he was going to recover from this, I would believe that.  But he's not going to recover from this and in my heart of hearts I don't believe that it's doing him any good at all.  Why can't he stay in bed all the time, if that's what he wants? Why can't he have his meals in bed?  Why can't he just rest in bed until the Good Lord sees fit to relive his earthly body from his suffering?!?

I hate seeing him moved around like a rag doll.  He can't say what he wants or doesn't want anymore.  Well, I take that back, because he can to some extent.  I help him eat and drink sometimes, and he makes it known when he is done with that nonsense.  But if he doesn't want to get out of bed, he can't say no.  If he wants to go back to bed, he has to wait until someone (two someones, actually, since he requires a Hoyer lift which requires the assistance of two people) is able to help him.  

I often think about how frequently I move when I'm sitting, or lying in bed.  I move a LOT. I get uncomfortable in one position quickly.  Then I imagine, what if i was at the mercy of someone else to reposition me?  What if I couldn't move myself?  I'd be mad all the time, too.  No wonder people who are bedridden are sore and mad.  But what do we do? Reposition them a MINIMUM (generally) of every 2 hours, and give them pain medication.  Ugh.  

Anyway.  My heart breaks a little more every time I see my Dad.  I frequently imagine him yelling at me, lol.  Going back a few years, as if he could see himself then as he is now, and telling me not to let any of this happen. "Take me out back and shoot me," he would say.  That would be him yelling at me.  I can hear him saying, I don't want to be helpless, sitting in a chair or laying in bed all the time, not being able to do anything for myself, having other people feed me and shower me and wipe my ass for me, and being stuck in a home somewhere.  Just shoot me.  

Of course, just shooting him is not legal. Nor is the sentiment behind it.  If he was a dog or a cat or a horse, it would be.  In fact, it would be acceptable and even considered the best thing to do.  But since he's human, nope.  But I won't get into that right now.

Every night I pray.  I ask God to let my Dad wake up in the morning and be completely cured, with his mind completely restored and working at it's peak again, his thinking clear and concise and without any confusion; his body strong and able and not damaged, so that he could literally get himself out of bed, get himself dressed, and walk out of that place, never to return.  

What? God is a miracle worker. He could do it. Every night I beg Him to do this.

And then I ask Him, if He's not going to do it My Way, will He please restore my Dad's health according to His will. Soon. What is the point of all of this suffering? Not just for my Dad, but for my Mom and for me?  

At the same time, I am terrified of what it will be like when that happens.

All that being said, every time I leave my Dad, I am acutely aware that it may very well be the last time I see him alive.  And it doesn't make me cry every time anymore.  I always hug him -- sometimes he "hugs" me back (which by now is him making eye contact with me and raising his arm up a little bit to touch mine when I lean down to hug hum) and then I tell him I love him. He hasn't told me that he loves me, too, in a few weeks. But I know he does.  

Well. Growing up isn't always as fun as I thought it would be when I was a kid.

I'm not always this moody in real life, either.  Lately more than usual.  But when I sit down to write, I generally let the moodiness out. Because if I let it take me over in real life, I would probably be on the psych ward or something.

And on that note, back to work!

TTYL.

After I share the song stuck in my head today: What It's Like by Everlast

What's meant to be will always find a way...

I'm going to have to show my little-known country side here and admit that, whenever I hear that saying, I get Trisha Yearwood's She's in Love with the Boy stuck in my head. 

Maybe you're not surprised that I have a country music side.  I'll be the first to jump up and say that it is most definitely NOT a "current" country music side.  I couldn't name a current country music song to save my life.  But classic country?  As in, from the 1960's and 1970's and 1980's and to a lesser but still more-than-you-would-think-if-you-knew-me-at-the-time extent, the 1990's.  

It's called, "growing up listening to the music your parents listened to". dontcha know. And growing up in my parents' house, it seemed to me that the stereo was always on.  My Dad loved music.  Listening to it and playing it.  He used to have a wall of 8-tracks next to the wall of CDs in their office -- the same office that today still houses the old console AM/FM stereo with the turntable (with the 45, 33-1/3, AND 78rpm speeds) and the 8-track player and the double cassette player that my Dad retrofitted into in the 80's.  The man was serious about his music.  But that's now what I wanted to write about.  Although it fits at this point because I was talking about how I have this little tiny vein of classic country music knowledge, and now you know.

But do you ever think about how things just happen and, in hindsight, it seems like they were just meant to be? Because I do.  These kinds of things fascinate me.  When I was a kid, and we'd be driving somewhere, I'd watch out the window and look at all the other cars with people in them (because, you know, we had to entertain ourselves that way since we didn't have phones and devices and such that we brought with us everywhere. The best we had was books, but I got incredibly car sick if I tried to read while driving, so I was "stuck" looking out the window or, for really long trips, listening to music.) and marvel at the fact that all of these other people were doing things that brought us all to that same exact place at that same exact time, even if just for a few seconds.  That's kind of but not really the same thing, I know, but it lead to me thinking about coincidence and why things happen the way they do, and how just a few seconds can completely change a situation.

But back to my topic for today -- things that were meant to be.  One example in my life that I like to give is, well, me and my hubby.  I'll try to keep this short, but, you may or may not already know that we've known each other since junior high school.  That's a stretch; we knew of each other in junior high school.  We knew of each other more in high school, but I wouldn't even say that we became friends until we started working at the same place together in 10th grade. 

One day in 9th or 10th grade, I don't remember which, we had a social studies or history class or something like that together.  The teacher was talking about the Treaty of Paris, which was signed on September 3, 1783.  I distinctly remember that after the teacher told us the date, my hubby said, "Hey, that's my birthday!" and that caught my attention because, of course, it is also my birthday.  Many years later, when sharing this story with him, my hubby would tell me that he knew years earlier that we shared the same birthday because he "actually paid attention during morning announcements" when they shared people's birthdays.  I honestly don't remember them doing that, and in any case, our birthdays were always at the very beginning of the school year and who pays attention to morning announcements at the beginning of the school year anyway!?! Weirdo.

I didn't think much of it, until we started dating a few years later.  Oh em gee, it was so cool, we were totally meant to be together, we were born on the exact same day and blah blah blah, it's a sign!!  I was way into "signs" then.  Who isn't, when they're 18 and about to graduate from high school and the world is their oyster and they have no idea what they want to do with their life and they're looking for any kind of direction about which way to go!?  Starry-eyed, madly-in-love me was sure that he was my soul mate and that was that. Not just because we were born on the same day.  But that was what God had needed to do to get my attention (yes, I did acknowledge even then, if only to myself, that it was a God "thing") and, knowing that, I was fully confident that I was Doing the Right Thing (for what felt like the first time in my young-adult-wannabe life).  I gave him my heart and soul and...

...he dumped me.  Oh my gosh, the drama!  I'll spare you.  It's amusing now, considering how it all turned out.  Even saying "he dumped me" makes me laugh now.  Everyone took everything so serious back then, but man, we were just kids.  Not to belittle the emotions because they were very real, but damn.  Again, with the benefit now of hindsight...and to the point of this story, you know what?  I always knew that we would end up together.  I just didn't know when.  I can't say how I knew it, because every single sign on Earth seemed to point firmly to the most opposite outcome.  Everything and everyone around me was like No, no, no, and no.  But there was one voice I heard that kept insisting: Yes, just wait and see.  

How long do I have to wait!? 

Can't tell you. Just wait.

God has always known that I'm not good at waiting. ;)

Anywho.  I can look back at this now and say that I most certainly believe it was the Holy Spirit telling me to wait and be patient.  At the time, I didn't know about the Holy Spirit the way I do now.  I believe that God brought us together, and at that time I was in the whole 'everything happens for a reason, even things that hurt and things that don't make sense and things that break your heart' so I was trying to figure out why that whole thing was happening, but, yeah.  I also like to think of this as proof that we really were meant to be together, because honestly, we tried to NOT be together but just ended up back together anyway.  Again, sparing you all the sordid details, ha ha ha.  

There are a few other stories I could tell.  I'll do the Cliff Notes versions here.  Do kids even use Cliff Notes anymore? Probably not.

When we decided to get married, of course we knew it'd have to be on September 3rd. We originally thought we'd wait until the next time it was on a Saturday, which was a few years away from when we got back together, but then decided we didn't want to wait and got married on our next birthdays.  September 3rd happened to fall on a Tuesday that year.  Didn't realize it at the time, but we were also born on a Tuesday.  Weird, right?

About 22 years later, in the middle of January, our son was born. On a Tuesday.  OK, so, he wasn't born in September, but his birth day date ends in a 3 and he was also born on a Tuesday.  Good enough for me!

I had another "meant to be" moment today, this morning at Bible Study.  So, at Saturday Bible Study, we basically go over the lessons (more or less) that will be in Sunday's service.  One of the readings, Ephesians 2:13-18, that we read today stood out to me.  Not in an "Oh my gosh, this is the most powerful and poignant thing I've ever read!" kind of way, but a much more subtle way that hard to describe.  We read it, and then I couldn't stop thinking about it.  The thing about group Bible study is that the discussion often takes off (and on Saturday it often makes some sharp turns and goes in completely different directions) right after a passage is read, which makes it difficult to go back and re-read something and really understand what it's saying, you know? Because you're trying to listen to what's going on and also focus on what you just read, which for me anyway is difficult to do.  So while the conversation was continuing, I just kept looking at the words, because something about them kept drawing me in.  Finally I grabbed my Bible and looked up the verse there, to see if there was something either before or after those verses that I needed to see, and you know what?  Sometime in the recent past, I had already marked that same verse in my own Bible.  My bookmarker ribbon thingy was even on that very page, and I had drawn an arrow (in black pen) to Ephesians 2:13.  

I found that oddly comforting, but it also brought out more questions.  When did I mark that in the past? Why did I mark that in the past?  Like I said, it didn't strike me as a particularly poignant passage, and I generally only mark super meaningful verses in my own Bible.  So at some point, I found that very verse super meaningful, but I couldn't remember when or why.  Not only that, but I put my page marker ribbon on that page, which means I really wanted to remember it.  So now I'm convinced that there's something in there I need to hear, read, comprehend, realize.  And you know what? I love it!  I don't care if I sound like a freak.  This message was sent to me directly from God, I know it, and I am sooooooo comforted by that.  Like, I know I don't have to question His intent or wonder if He has some hidden agenda or anything.  Because I'm tired of trying to figure people out.  People fascinate but confuse me, and that gets tiring.  His Word is what it is.  I'm understanding that more day by day.

The hubby has to work overnight tonight, boo, and even though we worked opposite shifts for years (I used to be the overnight worker, tho!), I can't fall asleep without him very well, so I'm sitting up writing instead.  I think I'll close up here soon and go read that verse for a while.  I don't even think about it all that much, I just kind of look at the words and relax and...it's so comforting.  

God is good...ALL. THE. TIME!!

Peace out, y'all.

P.S. in case you're wondering:

Ephesians 2:13-18 (NIV)

 13 But now in Christ Jesus you who once were far away have been brought near by the blood of Christ.

14 For he himself is our peace, who has made the two groups one and has destroyed the barrier, the dividing wall of hostility, 15 by setting aside in his flesh the law with its commands and regulations. His purpose was to create in himself one new humanity out of the two, thus making peace, 16 and in one body to reconcile both of them to God through the cross, by which he put to death their hostility. 17 He came and preached peace to you who were far away and peace to those who were near. 18 For through him we both have access to the Father by one Spirit.

Random thoughts, version next.

What a difference a year can make, eh?

Last year at this time, my Dad was in the hospital.  He had just finished a stint (not to be confused with a "stent" which is something completely different) in the short-term rehab unit at the nursing home that I couldn't bring myself to call a nursing home at that time and had lasted a whole not-even-24-hours at home before he landed back in the hospital again due to general weakness (a/k/a he wouldn't/couldn't get out of his chair).  

Last year at this time, I had a dog. He was an awesome dog, but he was getting older and with that, was starting to have some issues.  He wasn't running and jumping and playing nearly as much as he used to.  He was sleeping more.  He was having more accidents of the urinary incontinental type (it should be a word, really, it should).  But he was still healthy and full of life and love and the thought of life without him brought instant tears to my eyes.

Last year at this time, I also had two horses.  One of them had just turned 30, and the other was 26.  The previous winter had been hard on both of them, especially the 30yo.  She had always been an easy keeper, which for you non-horse-people means that she could just stand downwind from a flake of hay and gain weight, but for the last few winters she hadn't been keeping weight on over the winter like she had when she was younger.  And that particular winter, she actually lost a bit of weight, so much that I was really worried about losing her for a while in the early spring.  But we got through it and she was starting to fill out again and was acting like her old self again and I was starting to breathe a little easier.  

It struck me at one point that it was super bad timing that my Dad, my dog, and horse were all aging and approaching the finish line at the same time.  It felt like they were all competing to see who could keep me the most worried.  As if one of them had to be creeping closer to the edge at all times just to keep me awake at night.  Damn them!  Damn them all to Hell!  But not really! I cried.  I obviously didn't plan it; that's just the way it worked out.

Well!

Here we are a year later.  

My Dad is on hospice at the nursing home that I now can call a nursing home without even a second thought.  He can barely talk some days.  He doesn't seem to understand anything anymore. He needs someone to feed him or he wouldn't eat.  He needs someone to help him drink or he wouldn't do that, either.  He needs someone to dress him, wash him up, put him in his Broda chair, push said chair to where they want him to be, put him in bed, cover him with blankets.  He can barely make his needs or wants known anymore.  He is at the mercy of everyone else.  I don't know if he even knows who I am. I believe he recognizes that I'm someone he knows, but I don't know if he knows who I am.  A few weeks ago, he looked at my son and basically asked him who he was.  I don't know if he even knows he is alive anymore.

We don't have a dog anymore.  Max died last November.  I wrote about it in here.  I still have nightmares about it.  I'm not used to being a no-dog household yet.

And now, we have one horse.  She's 27 years old.  She's a miniature horse, black and white tobiano, and her name is Shasta.  I don't know if she's broke to ride or drive, and come to think of it, I've never actually measured her to see how tall she really is, but she's much too small for anyone in my family to have ever ridden.  We've had her for about 18 years.  We got her as a companion for my other horse, Nicker, who died about a month ago at the age of 31.

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I started writing that yesterday, just to get a quick update started.  

I've had a horse die on me before -- we had a shetland pony named Wiggles for a short time, a rescue that I adopted who was a lot older than we were told she was and who unfortunately passed away her first winter with us.  That sucked, but I knew this was going to be different, because Nicker was my girl.  She was my first horse.  My heart horse.  I hate to say "I had her" because, like all of my pets, she was more like family than a pet, so I say that she was in our family for 22 years.  

Even though she was 31 years old and I knew this day was coming sooner rather than later, it was still rather unexpected.  She had been doing well for a 31yo horse lately, I thought.  Since last winter, I'd been giving her senior feed all year round instead of just in the winter to put/keep weight on her, as well as supplemental hay all year (back in the day she could be on fresh grass all summer and hay/feed in the winter and be just fine).  The day before she died, she was acting a little off. I couldn't quite figure it out; she was moving around just fine, drinking and acting normal, but she wouldn't eat much which was weird for her.  And she was standing with her left hind leg crooked.  I'd seen her rolling earlier (which was not unusual for her, either - she loved rolling in the mud) so I thought maybe she'd pulled a muscle while getting up or something, even though she wasn't lame.  She wasn't sweating.  She relaxed when I scratched her back and rubbed her muscles, so I worried but not more than usual.

The next morning, we planned to go fishing. We got up early and I went out to check on her.  She didn't answer when I called her.  She was standing in her stall, looking like she didn't feel good but not like she was close to death.  Otherwise I wouldn't have gone fishing.  I've replayed this almost every day since then.  She wasn't sweating. She hadn't eaten her food from the night before.  She was breathing a little faster than normal.  I kissed her and told her to be good and in my head I was thinking "...and don't die".  Then we went fishing.  And I worried about her the whole time.

Which I was right to do. 

The fishing was sub-par.  It was windy. I caught a small baby bass and a nice-sized crappie before the wind picked up and we decided to leave.  The hubby could tell I was distracted and asked if I was going to call the vet when we got home and I said Yeah, I probably would, if she wasn't any better.

So as soon as we got home, I went to her stall.  It was empty.  I called to her, and there was no answer.  I went to the gate and looked, and there she was, on her side, next to the barn.  Lifeless.  

I don't want to relive all that right now.  Long story short is that we (and by "we" I mean the hubby) ended up digging a hole in the pasture and burying her that day.  I cut the hair off her tail and mane to save, I'd like to make a bracelet or something out of it.  There's enough I could make something more, and I've found some cool things on Pinterest to make. But for now, it's in a bag on my "pet memorial" shelf.  

So!  That's what's been going on.  So many people have been like, "Oh my gosh, you've been through so much these past few months..." but it really doesn't feel like it. Maybe if Max and Nicker had been young and died suddenly and unexpectedly, but they both lived long, well-loved lives.  Don't get me wrong, I miss them both and their actual deaths were traumatic to me.  Max's especially.  Watching him deteriorate for months and then those last few hours, well, I don't want to talk about that right now either, but it was horrible.  I'm glad Nicker went pretty quickly.  I hate watching deterioration and suffering.

We haven't entertained the idea of getting another dog yet.  We work a lot.  I already felt bad for Max because we were gone so much at the end of his life.  There's no way I can do that to a puppy or even a new adult dog right now.  I'm not gonna lie, I do watch videos online of Boxer dogs (sometimes even my own) and reminisce about how goofy and fun they are, but I don't feel the pull to get one.  I wan to find someone who has one so I can pet it and smoosher it's face and hug it and love it, but I don't want to be responsible for it.  Ha ha ha.

I'm not going to get another horse.  I still have Shasta, for one thing.  But another riding horse?  No, I don't think so.  Maybe when we retire.  

Last Week I Learned

...that if you have a person on hospice care in a skilled nursing facility, and if that person one morning is more difficult than usual to wake up, and has oxygen saturations in the 70's even when they're on 4LPM of supplemental oxygen, and that person is also having shortness of breath and decreased breath sounds in one of their lungs, the staff at the skilled nursing facility basically call you (and by "you" I mean the person's emergency contact person) and say, essentially -- Hey, you should get in here ASAFP.  Capice? 

Which, in many cases I'd imagine, leads to said contact person calling another person close to the person on hospice and relaying the same message, probably with a bit more emotion and a bit less technical information.  

And, that's how Wednesday started for me last week. A call from my Mom at about 7am, which in the history of forever has never brought good information, telling me that my Dad had low oxygen levels and wasn't waking up.  I was supposed to work from home that day, and when I first talked to her I strung some words together about that I'd go work from the office instead so I could be in town and then play it by ear from there, but a few minutes later after I actually woke up enough to get out of bed and get in the shower, and process what I'd just been told, I was like -- What on earth was I thinking?!  If my Dad is non-responsive and barely breathing, my ass is NOT going to work today.  Just thinking about it by that time brought me to tears and I was like, no, I can't work with this going on. So I finished my shower and texted my boss, and the doctor I was working with that day, and then my husband, and my son.  Maybe not in that order, I don't remember.  I probably texted the hubby and son first, then took a shower.  

Regardless of the technical details, most of which I don't feel like re-hashing right now, the long-story-short version is that that was a horrible day. But he woke up later.  He wasn't very talkative, but he did talk a bit.  His O2 sats went up to the upper 80's to low 90's again, on his usual 2-3L.  The hospice nurse did say that his left lung sounds were diminished and congested, and he didn't eat much that day, but ever since then he's been -- in their words -- "not declining".  Which, in hospice-speak, doesn't mean that he's getting better, it just means he's not rapidly declining like we all thought he was on Wednesday.  

We thought Wednesday was going to be It.  You know.  The Day.

No one can explain what happened.  His lungs are still not great, but they haven't been for years.  But they're back to what they were before Wednesday.  It does seem to have taken a lot out of him, unfortunately.  He's very tired now.  He still sleeps about 18 hours a day, but when I've seen him, even when he's awake, he looks exhausted. He continues to lose weight, despite eating 75-100% of his meals.  

He just looks sad all the time now.  Sadder than before.  

I gotta get back to work now.  TTYL

Facebook wants to know...

 A few random things that are on my mind:

It took two hours to drive to work this morning. It normally takes only one hour.  Why did it take so long? Because construction.  Long story short, there are basically two major thoroughfares from the state where I live into the state where I work in my part of the woods (because you have to cross a river) and this summer, there is going to be major construction on both routes, joy to the world.  Well, construction has already started on the southernmost route, which is not my primary route anymore (it used to be, before we moved a few years ago), so a lot of the traffic that would normally be on the southernmost route has decided to detour themselves to the northernmost route.  Construction hasn't even started on this route yet, and it's already backed up so that it takes me twice as long to get to work as usual. I have the feeling it's going to be a long summer at this rate.  I think my honest-to-God tolerance for a commute to work is about 65 minutes on a regular basis, 90 minutes intermittently.  120 minutes feels like it's scratching on every single last nerve I have.  Seriously!  I spent the second half of the "drive" to work this morning daydreaming about how nice it would be to work closer to home. 

The only good thing is that I got awesome gas mileage since we didn't go faster than about 50mph for the last hour.  But still...not worth it. I don't want to leave home at 0530 to get there at 0730.  I don't want to spend 4 hours or more A DAY commuting to work.  I'm going to have to either find some serious back roads to take to work, figure out a way to work from home a lot, or spend more time than I had originally planned staying at my parents' house this summer if this is how the drive is going to be.  Because I can't do it.  

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It's hard, isn't it? When you've been working so hard to be filled with the Holy Spirit and to show grace and mercy to those around you, even and especially those who have done you wrong, because you really feel in your heart that that is the right thing to do, because you've tried the alternative and you know there's nothing good about that.  Seriously, holding grudges isn't any good.  Hating other people isn't any good.  All those things about forgiving others because the only person you're hurting is yourself if you don't are so true.  I have plenty of good reasons to hate a few people in this world, but I'm choosing not to anymore, because why? It doesn't matter to them if I hate them or not.  It's just taking up space in my mind and in my heart, space and time that I should be using to focus on loving others anyway.  I've felt so much peace since I've given up hating other people and regretting doing things that I wish I hadn't done in the past.  Not that it's been easy to just turn the other cheek, so to speak, but once you start doing it, it starts becoming second nature.  

So you (I) know in your (my) heart there's nothing good about being mad at someone who doesn't even know you're mad at them, someone who won't even talk to you or anything, that it's just a moot point and you should just let it go instead of letting it bother you (me).  I know these things.  I know the best thing for me to do is, um, you know...Let Go and Let God.  I've given Him this particular trouble so many times in the past, but then I keep taking it back. Why do I keep taking it back? Because I think I can fix it somehow?  I can't.  It's not fixable.  Maybe in time...nope. Maybe just a little more time...nope.  Maybe in a different situation...nope.  And in case you don't speak Cryptic Tash, I'm talking about my sister here.  

I'm talking about the fact that I'm just not as mad as I want to be at the fact that she won't visit my parents, even though my Mom has asked her to many times.  The fact that she doesn't want to see my Dad "in his condition" and blames it on the fact that he called her by my name the last time she saw him, or at least that's what she's telling my Mom.  The fact that she doesn't even ask how he's doing, or how my Mom's doing, or offers to help at all in any way, shape, or form.  That's fine, because we don't need her help, anyway.  I want to be outraged by this.  But I'm not.  I'm not surprised by any of her actions, or lack thereof.  I'm not surprised that she hasn't had a change of heart and that we can't rely on her for anything and that she refuses to be reasonable and talk about this like an adult.  I want to just go off and totally blast her and rip her to shreds for hurting my parents like she has.  She doesn't even know.  She doesn't even care. THAT is what pisses me off the most.  

Not exactly sure where I was going to take this next. I guess I just needed to vent because it does still bother me, but not in a personal way anymore.  She can't hurt me anymore, maybe she realizes that, too, and that's why she's going after my parents now.  Whatever her reasoning is, all I will continue to do is pray that 1. she stops hurting my parents. They have done nothing wrong.  If they did, it wasn't intentional.  None of us are perfect parents.  We do the best with what we know at the time.  2. that she opens her heart to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.  I mean REALLY opens her heart to the Triune God and accepts Jesus as her Lord and Savior one day. Not for my sake, not for my parents' sake, but for her own sake.  She is filled with so much hate. It saddens me that anyone at all would live like that.  

Love one another. That is all.