Crabby Appleton

It's been a long week.

Be forewarned I'm tired and I'm crabby.

I've had several thoughts that never quite made it to the blog. This is probably a good thing. There is little about an old person on pain meds, who worries about pooping to the point of it becoming an obsession and sits in one spot (the toilet, the dining room table, the bed, the middle of his room) for what seems like eternity staring into space that is entertaining. Maybe it could be, but when something happens at 2am and lasts until almost 4am even when I take notes before going back to sleep, it looses something in the telling.

I'm tired and I'm crabby.

Most mornings I wake up reminding myself to kick up sympathy and compassion a notch. It doesn't last very long. In my defense, I will say that come nighttime, after Dad is finally in bed, with his eyes closed and I'm holding onto his hand and he asks me to stay with him for awhile, my ability to be gentle and comforting does kick in. I try to forget the insanely stupid and anger-filled moments of the day. Still they seem to be piling up.

I'm tired and I'm crabby.

We had a small altercation this morning over a receipt for our new fridge and oven. Had you been watching you might have thought it was a playground argument over whether the sand should be in the box or out. I'm right. No I'm right. No I'm right. And then the sand starts flying. Dad was really not making any sense. I lost any semblance of nice and talked to him by pointing my finger and spitting out my words. No wonder he told me that he hopes Jack and I find a "sweet" tree when we go out later.

It shouldn't have hurt my feelings, because I know I'm not sweet. In fact I could probably be mistaken for Crabby Appleton's crabbier sister. Still the truth hurts. Especially when it's piled on top of tired.

And since I'm an all or nothing girl, when someone acknowledges my crabbiness, even with the truth, it wipes out all the hand holding and bottom wiping. It makes the good things go away so all I see is the extent of my own crabbiness.

I guess I'm at that point in the caregiver's journey where I could use a little R&R.

Can you hear the BUT .... coming.

I know and have preached about the caregiver caring for herself first. If the caregiver ain't happy nobody's happy, or healthy. I know about the "putting on my own oxygen mask first" rule. I know it's important to eat right, exercise and rest. BUT like any mother of a newborn after the luster has worn off, who is sleep deprived and maybe a little, or a lot, crabby will tell you, when there is a list of things to get done in a 24 hour period, the whole, "I'll just take a walk and leave things to fend for themselves for a few minutes" just isn't practical even if it is possible. So after awhile the caregiver gets crabby, stops combing her hair, sleeps in fits and starts and determines a steady diet of Mickey D french fires with Klondike bars on the side for a daily dose of Calcium is the equivalent of taking care of herself.

I realize that caring for a 93 year old man is not the same as a newborn. I'm beginning to realize, however, that there are many similarities between old people and toddlers with a case of Terrible 2 independence. Dad is needy but wants to do things his way (a good thing, I know, but slow), and wants what HE wants NOW. The fact that he is a left-brain thinker (i.e. engineer) and I am right-brained, (i.e. emotional) makes for some disagreements. Both of us demanding to have the best solution to a problem. I don't want to take away what independence he has, BUT I'm not very tolerant of "my way or the highway" thinking, unless it is MY way.

And let's face it I have drug issues. I just don't like being around people under the influence. Do I want my father to be in pain? NO, NO, 1000 times NO. Do I like trying to talk to him when he thinks his mind is perfectly normal but I KNOW his thinking is a little but off. NO! In fact it makes me crazy.

Crab. Crab. Crab.

Sweetie will be here soon so I should get ready for our date. Don't you know he's going to have a good time! Maybe we'll just check into a beach hotel for a few hours, open up the window in order to let what little sea breeze there is blow through the room, and sleep. My friend Betty Garrett used to say, go outside and blow the stink off. I was never quite sure what she meant, but today I have a pretty good idea.

Wishing for you moments of pleasure and plenty of patience,

Merry ME