Stream of Consciousness Rant

“Insanity:
doing the same thing over and over again

and expecting different results.”

Albert Einstein

As you know I like to start off my blog with a quote. I love googling a subject and finding (usually) the perfect something to go along with what I want to write. Sometimes it's a bit of a stretch, sometimes I am on the same wave length as some of the great minds of the world.

I knew there would not be a quote for how I'm feeling today. Something along the lines of: "My father is a complete butt head and I don't know why I let him get under my skin the way I do, and I wish I could just hop on a magic carpet and ride away to the land of Kettle Chips and Coca Cola where only happy people live and crying is a misdemeanor punishable by listening to continues rewinds of "Don't Worry Be Happy" or enter the FBI Witness Protection Program and be reinvented to a girl who doesn't care so much."

Nope, the wise people of the world have not yet come up with a quote to match that one. Instead I googled "insanity" which is pretty much how I'm feeling. I have heard this saying many times over the years. In church, 12 step meetings, from my beloved. I never knew it originated with Albert Einstein.

Later that same day. ...

I was feeling insane. Now I feel kind of a combo of anger/sadness/overwhelming weariness. This is not new. I recognize the pattern. It is how how defend myself emotionally. It is a prelude to stuffing my feelings and perhaps if I don't get over it, depression. It is a hangover from past behavior that I know doesn't work. Yet, insanely, I don't know how to be different.

I would like to go somewhere and scream, but really does screaming do anything but let the booger man out of the bag? Sleep is a kinder/gentler release.

You may be asking what brought this on. You may be shaking your head, like the hospice nurse. Ill give you a little taste of my last 12 hours.

Dad took a nap in his chair after going out with my brother-in-law (the guy he didn't like depending on when he was living here, but now relies on for companionship, gun buying, understanding, and haircuts). When he woke up he couldn't stand up without help. He wobbled like one of those toy people my kids used to play with. They had rounded bottoms. They fell over but bounced back up. Dad teeters, but if he falls I doubt seriously he'll rebound as nicely as Mr. Weeble. After watching him, Jack got him to sit in the wheelchair and pushed him to the table. He drank part of his nightly cocktail but didn't eat much. For dessert he ate dog biscuits instead of the oreos put in front of him. He was very confused. He tried reading the blank white napkin. I asked him what it said and was told he couldn't make it out. Huh? I rolled him back to his room, helped him get undressed and into bed. I asked that he not take any pain medication in order that it work its way out of his system in case that was the cause for his confusion. He complied with my wishes begrudgingly. I should be glad he did what I asked, but I get hung up on the fact that he doesn't think I know what I'm talking about and says things like, "you're not the nurse". Which of course I'm not, but then again, neither is he and his mean voice always sends my little girl underground and my adult girl into a rage. Every two hours I helped him out wet underpants and into dry ones. In between I lay in bed and worried. For awhile I tried writing his eulogy. I couldn't get much past, "My father was an asshole. Thanks for coming." After 3am he stopped calling me.

The social worker came this morning and, as if touched by Benny Hinn himself, Dad could walk without dragging his leg. He told the SW that I thought he was an addict so I left the room. I didn't go far enough away. Even though I was tying furiously on the computer keys I heard him say things that I thought had been cleared up. He told what I think are lies. And, of course, he filled her in on what a great guy he is because he forking over $$$ every month so I can live here and take care of him. He has no clue what it would cost to have "real" help come in and do what I do. The insane person I have become refuses to give him the opportunity. Instead I let him say his stuff, get upset when Sweetie comes to my rescue, get scared when Dad responds to Sweetie like a pit bull on steroids. Then I end up in my bed.

The visit with the nurse came next. We had a 3 (sometimes 4) way discussion on pain medication. I was told (it felt like a reprimand but I think that was because I was already too sensitive) that it is better to let take narcotics before the pain gets so bad it is harder to control. Dad was told it would be a good idea for ME to administer his medications so I'd have a better idea of the exact dosage he's taking. He doesn't think that is necessary, i.e. Luther is in charge and don't try to change it. He through out some kind of bullshit that he is really bothered by the fact that I argue with him when he thinks I should just accept his will. The fact that I am his healthcare surrogate, was of little significance. He also made a statement that he never argued with his bosses when he worked. I admit that I may not have heard him correctly and I may hiave misunderstood, but that sure sounds like he expects me (the employee) should not argue with him (the employer). No mention of being a daughter in that statement. I have to tell you I feel screwed.

And who is in charge of whether or not I lie down and take it or not? Ummm, that would be me. I have no clue how to have a conversation with this man that does not turn ugly, where both of us hear what the other has to say, so as in time pas t my inclination is to run as far as I can run. Usually this is not a physical possibility so I go to my own little lala land.

I've been wondering lately why I blog? One reason is that I feel like I have people out there who listen to me. You don't have to agree or disagree. You don't have to feel sorry for me or take pity on him. You don't have to comment. But knowing there is a big circle of blog friends makes it easier to write out these thoughts and feelings than journaling in one of my kazillion paper journals. When I read other blogs, I find myself nodding my head, or sharing tears, or laughing out loud, or reaching out in a kind of sisterhood so I know those of you who read my stuff can hear me even if you can't hear me. There is recovery in that for me. Not a lot, but enough to make a difference between insane and totally wacho.

For those of you out there who are pray-ers, I ask that you send up a request to the great healer in the sky. Ask that He/She grant me strength, courage, and peace so that I can keep the promise I made to my father (and more importantly to myself) to stick by him til the end. I no longer know why I feel that is important. I hope it is not self-defeating. I hope I am smarter than that. Regardless of the I don't knows, it is what I feel called to do. There will be time after he is gone to figure it all out.

Thanks for listening,

Merry, with a touch of madness, ME

P.S. I should read this over before I push the publish button but it might make me throw up. Please forgive the type-o's.

Crazy Larry (my new alter ego) photo: http://www.toymania.com/columns/spotlight/palmuppets2.shtml