Starting In The Middle!

I'll just say at the start that I'm hoping for comments, so I don't have to keep reinventing the "wheel!"

I set this up a couple of days ago, but I didn't know where to begin. I have the Storyteller archetype, and it likes a beginning, middle, and end. I'm starting in the middle, and my brain went TILT in the form of, "...uh, uh, uh, ...." Ha!

So, the middle!

"Sandwich" implies three layers. Let me just say here that I suck as the filling! Tears make it soggy, like egg salad with too much mayonnaise; angry or resigned perseverance makes it stringy, like bad pastrami. The bread, my kids on one side and my parents on the other, is its own story! My kids, three daughters, are all grown and (mostly) gone. My parents moved from San Diego, an hour from us, to two houses away from us in our cul de sac in January, 2003.

The reason for their move from their home of 43 years was that my mom had Alzheimer's, and my dad felt like he needed help. They moved, in spite of my protestations that they had their doctors, dentists, friends, and neighbors--43 years of living and collecting people and situations that made their lives full--and we could just supplement those already-in-place people with an in-home helper a few hours daily. My dad stated flat out that this wasn't going to happen; he didn't want someone else in the house.

My dad hates for anyone to touch anything in his space. He hates for anything to be put away or thrown away; he's very much interested in his convenience, and if Mom liked neatness and he liked convenience, with everything spread over tables, countertops, bookcases--in other words, in plain sight and within easy reach--then, he got his way, and Mom endured. Mom just got tired of silent battles, and she retreated first into her bedroom, where she sat all day every day, where Dad brought her glasses of iced tea, ostensibly to "help" her but really to keep her out of "his" space, and she retreated finally and irrevocably into Alzheimer's.

Mom died two years ago in an Alzheimer's care unit that I signed her into a year after they moved to our cul de sac, a year of watching Dad yell at her for everything and anything he could think of, a year of watching her cry constantly. She was happy in her new home, smiling and laughing, even at the end. She left me with Dad. I told her years ago that she'd better not do that, and she laughed and said she wouldn't dare! She lied to me!

My dad and I have had "issues," ever since I was a little girl. My first memory is of him yelling at me, and that pretty much says it all! In fact my first several memories are of him yelling at me for various things. And that never changed. So, I arrived at 20 years old with PTSD. I'd like to think I've resolved a lot of that stuff, but I'd be lying to myself. And now, I'm stuck with a sick and dying old man--really a COG: Crotchety Old Guy! Ha!

I started this blog out of desperation. Last Wednesday, Dad called me at 9:30 p.m. and said, "I haven't eaten dinner, and I'm too weak to fix some. I should have called at 8:30, but I thought I'd get some strength back." I, of course, said I'd be right over.

I fixed some eggs, toast, and chopped an apple. As he was eating, he said he needed to go to the bathroom--an hour-long process--and could I wait to see if he needed help to get up off the toilet. (He has a raised toilet seat, grab bars, and a walker for help.) I acquiesced, because I've seen him not be able to get up. I waited, and waited, and waited...you get the drift. I'll cut the rest of this "story" short and say that I got home at 12:30 a.m. Then I got up at 5 a.m. Thursday.

Thursday, Dad had a first appointment with a doctor, and I got there at 9:10 a.m. When I walked in, he was sitting in his easy chair. He had done nothing to get ready to leave at 9:30! I was furious. He looked at me and said, "Have you ever been to a doctor's office and not waited?" I walked over and turned off the tv. Then, I grabbed his paraphernalia out of the bathroom, brought it to the living room, dressed him, and hustled him out the door with him complaining the entire time. I didn't care! We made the appointment, by the way!

And Friday, I woke with the thought that hospice nurses were coming for Dad's appointment today, and I had to be there. With that, I burst into tears! I was stunned! Who knew?! I did make the hospice appointment, but then I left for Marste's house in L.A. (Marste is one of the daughters!) I hid there until last night, when I arrived back here to listen to my dad bitch about no food in the house (there are other people he can call for this stuff) and glasses not fitting properly and all the rest of the junk.

In L.A., I'd had time to think about things. And one of the things I'd decided was to stop being at Dad's "beck and call." So, in anticipation of just exactly the no-food complaint, I'd stopped at a supermarket before I'd gone to his house, so I already had fruit, napkins, and tv dinners.

The other thing I did was set up this blog. Marste suggested the title and subtitle. They fit!

He just now called me to tell me again about his glasses. I called the lady who gives him showers, Ana, and she said if he'd take a shower immediately, she'd take him to the optometrist's office herself. COOL. So, I called Dad and said he had to be ready in 15 minutes for his shower upon her arrival, and she'd take him to get his glasses fitted. Again. (He won't wear the strap around the back of his head to keep them on. He just complains bitterly as they stretch out time and again. He bends them and makes them worse, too.)

So, I escaped for a few days from this hell that's become my life. My brother lives 3,000 miles from here--smart of him to move 20 years ago! If I'd have realized that this was coming, I'd have moved, too!! Ha!