The Daily Drivel

Well, I completely missed yesterday...not the entire day, just the posting part. I thought of it, while eating my breakfast, and then I got dressed and then....well, I did write (type...word process) a letter to PhD and Masters, and got a box ready to send to them for their birthdays...so that was productive! That may have been the productivity high point of the weekend....

The weather was beautiful and I did manage a couple of walks! I spent time online, playing with my SuperPokePet...which is a subject for an entire stand alone blog and may be a blockbuster, run-away best seller when I write my novel and manage to have it published and promoted (hopefully, not by myself).

So, now it's Monday. You would think that since I've never worked a normal 40 hour week (well, not in thirty five years anyway!) - my workweeks consist of all manner of hours and combinations of days required by various and sundry commitments and responsibilities - that weekends would have lost their uniqueness a long time ago. But, weekends must be hardwired somewhere into the Western social psyche. Everything's open seven days a week, most jobs require a weekend here or there...certainly, Sunday as a day of rest has become an archaic social antiquity....and, yet...it's still a time that I can feel less guilty if I'm less productive. I will have a drink in the afternoon (late morning) on a weekend...I will play on my computer...I will watch something on TV in the morning that's not news!

Now that my oldest grandchild is in first grade, he's around on the weekends, as opposed to only visible during the week for a couple of hours after the bus drops him off down the road. Tall One traditionally golfs on a Saturday morning, and on Sundays has declared "golf and football" will be played on the TV all afternoon, creating angst amongst the natives. Tall One also cooks on Sunday evenings, trying in vain to revive the "family meal"...but, his dinners are good, even if his clean-up leaves something to be desired. Daughter and I often take a walk together on a Sunday afternoon...stopping at the Pub for a drink and to pump dollars in to the video games machine at the bar.

I just got back from my increasingly less frequent run...3 miles! That's about maximum without building in "walk" breaks...the joints just aren't cooperating...I'll be heading over to Nana's shortly...so I'll leave off now...till the next time...

The Daily Experiment

Ahhhhh...I'm determined to start posting again...I decided this on my walk this morning.The walk that I took after sleeping 11 hours and having a cup of coffee with non-fat Half and Half (say it like Bernie Mac in "Bad Santa"), and a cup of grapes and an orange. Now, I'm back from my walk (about an hour) and living the life. It's November, 11 months from my last post (I've thought about posts, and even started a few, but I'm nothing if not inconsistent!), I'm sitting out on the deck, in the sun with an egg sandwich and Irish coffee. The Irish coffee contains coffee, Bailey's and Jameson...if I'm gonna do it, I'm gonna do it right, the egg sandwich is nondescript.

Anyway, 34 years ago (right after I was married), after an adolescence of undetermined, undiagnosed health issues (nagging, annoying, inconvenient, but not life threatening), I went for my third round of allergy testing (my first was as a child for chronic ear infections, the second as a teenager for angst). No reaction to the first series of skin testing....no reaction to the second series, done at the same time even though one usually has to schedule a second visit, because, seriously, I am not having any reactions!!! After this, the doctor, shaking his head because he was so convinced he would see some breakthrough revelation, and I'm obviously NOT cooperating, suggests he do an intradermal test, injecting a small amount of some sort of substance (alien DNA?) under the skin of my forearm...the purpose of which, is to find out if I have an autoimmune reaction, thus, in fact, proving that I am allergic to myself! I walked around for a week with a softball sized hive on my arm....

I'm thinking this was the precursor to the rash of autoimmune diseases that are diagnosed today...some I believe legitimate, others I relegate to to realm of Santa Clause and the Easter Bunny. I really do believe (as in my case) that there is a basis for feeling crappy a lot of the time....but, no excuses. I think, often, that American society makes it difficult, if not impossible, to live life according to one's abilities...life is rough if you're not physically gifted. A hundred years ago, I probably would have self-destructed about 10 years ago....but, I don't have to clear the land, build my home from the timber, grow all my own food, bear my children in the back bedroom, fight off Indians, and/or work in a sweat shop...I have access to penicillin and nourishing food, clean sheets, and satellite TV. We all operate under differing, diverse limitations. I'm not seeking a diagnosis or miracle pill...just permission, my own, to live within my capabilities. This is kind of hard.

I want to do it all. Twice. Everyday.

So, - not particularly pertaining to anything I've just written - what I'm going to try and do is post a bit everyday. Part diary/journal to document the physical, mental and if necessary the emotional barometer of my daily life, or maybe just whatever nonsense comes to mind. I'll try to make it interesting...otherwise, I'll get bored and stop!

The Beginning of "The Purge"...

Ok...then...it's been a bit since the last posting...I've been tired...I'm getting old.

Costa Rica was fun, really FUN! We arrived home to Thanksgiving preparations and "catch up".

My mother is 80. 80 years old...that's..."gettin' up there". I have never doubted that my mother loves me. She does. She just has an extremely obsessive way of showing it.

Mom started life...80 years ago...as an illegitimate child. 80 years ago, that (illegitimacy) was her fault, and if not her fault, her stigma. Her mother married in desperation, five years after my mother's birth. When Mom had bonded with her Aunt and established a place in that household, Mom was "kidnapped" from that familiar home to a creepy stepfather and a neglectful narcissist of a mother. So, it's understandable that my mother "has issues".

Mom married my Dad, a man 19 years her senior. Yes, for all the reasons you might suspect. He WAS a father figure, a provider, a protector. Unfortunately, he died at 61, leaving a 42 year old widow with a 16 year old daughter (me) and a 13 year old son, and all the "old" issues firmly intact....

Mom loves me for all the reasons you see touted out on the "Dr. Phil" shows about 16 year old teenage mothers. They just want so desperately for something to love them, only them, only them, only them. They see that baby as validation. They will correct all the wrongs inflicted on them....I am her victim...

My mother was almost 26 when I was born...she had been married to my father for seven years. But, I think she still carried with her the 16 year old, unwed mother, mindset. Dad was a means to an end. My mother's whole world was (is) her children.

This is not healthy....

And, now I am her caregiver...

Mom is my "difficult person".

A Good Story?

This doesn't happen to me very often...because, I consciously turn my thoughts in other directions. I strictly adhere to my commitment "to want to do everything I have to do". I do not normally dread anything or anyone. Today, I have a "dread".....that uncomfortable fearful expectation of not performing satisfactorily a simple task that I've taken EVERY precaution I can to properly complete. I have done my best to gather the best information from every available source...and yet, there are still some unknown factors involved. This task is for my mother...and I seriously would rather die than fuck this up.

Ok, that's an extreme overstatement...but, I'm in a bit of crisis...

Mom is on a VERY fixed, low income. Tall One and I help out wherever and whenever we can. Mom lives in a condo that we own, she pays us a monthly rent, plus her utilities. WE operate in the red (in the VERY red). My brothers help out financially, every single time I ask them for help, with gifts and medical equipment. I have been "supplementing" her grocery situation for years. I found an agency to modify her bathroom and install a vertical life, since she can't live independently otherwise. I have researched and helped her apply for medical assistance, energy assistance, rent rebates, and now the "Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program", formerly known as Food Stamps.

Mom deludes prides herself on her self-sufficiency and financial acumen.

I have tried repeatedly to contact the Public Assistance (Welfare) Office to ask a couple of simple, common sense type questions...I have left messages. No one has returned my calls. Mom can't shop for herself...I want to know if I'll get arrested for using her card. I want to know exactly HOW to use this card. I want to know for sure, before I do her grocery shopping if said card WILL WORK because it is, apparently, according to the lady who issued it, the MOST SENSITIVE CARD EVER MANUFACTURED! I MUST keep it securely in its protective sleeve. I can't get it too close to other cards, my cell phone, batteries, or magnets. This card has almost as many self-esteem issues and phobias as my mother. I have successfully activated it. But, what if I swipe it and the damn thing doesn't WORK! I'm doing two weeks worth of grocery shopping for my mother today, and then I'm going out of the country! My mother sees me as a mildly retarded twelve year old. Every legitimate screw up of my entire life (and a host of perceived fuck ups) is paraded out periodically and "chuckled" over. If this doesn't work, Mom's life will be ruined and IT WILL BE MY FAULT.

This is a ridiculous way for a 54 year old, accomplished, self assured, woman with average intelligence, to behave. ENOUGH! WHATEVER! ONWARD!

Either way, success or crushing failure, this will be a good story. I love a good story....

Fortress of Solitude...

...I don't have one...

I have a few moments in the morning where I can drink a cup of coffee without grand kids hanging off both legs and my left arm...but, that ends at approx. 8am, when I get the obligatory phone call from Nana. This is nothing "new". I've been talking to my mother AT LEAST once a day since before she retired at age 62. She is now, 80. Since retirement, it has been twice a day, morning and evening. This is by arrangement...hers. It's according to VERY strict guidelines formulated from massive expectations...hers. We do not deviate from the plan...I lie...I do not deviate from the plan...or I will die.

The Tall One is always around...I live with him, because we're married and he pays the bills for my indulgent, extravagant life style. He also works out of the shop...in our home. (This is his dream. He would be very grumpy if he had to commute. He's actually a bit put out if he has to spend more than 20 minutes a day in the truck.) I work out of our home, too. I'm putting off the laundry and cleaning as I type. The grand kids will be here before too long, with my daughter who works with my husband in the shop in our house. (And, there's a wart on the frog, on the bump on the log, in the hole at the bottom of the sea....)

On those rare occasions, when there is NO ONE in the immediate vicinity, the phone will ring and I will have to make an unscheduled run to my mother's (it's ok, because it is MY inconvenience, not hers) or to my boss's (because he's a quadriplegic and can't do ANYTHING for himself!). I am 99.9% ok with this, as I realize I am their "lifeline". But, it sucks the solitary out my day. I "nap" with the cell phone turned to vibrate IN MY HAND! I do! Before Nana moved four miles away, and I was still working full-time for Wheeler, I would wake up to the phone (not a cell) at 2am for an emergency run a couple of times a week. I can't do this anymore - physically, I can't. Wheeler has to "schedule" me for night time emergency standby. If I KNOW that he will be calling me (say, when his parents are out of town, or his other, younger, stronger attendants aren't available) I will not ignore hear the phone and rush to his rescue.

I wanted to be a mother...I love being a grandmother...I am a natural care-giver, it is my gift...Tall One annoys me a little bit with his clingy pouting, but it's only because he loves me and enjoys spending obsessive time with me, not out of an inability to do things on his own...

I just want to be left alone sometimes, without feeling guilty (my mother) or worrying that I'm missing something (everyone else).

Requiem

Tall One just stood up from breakfast and announced, "I'm not a Justin Beiber fan." Thanks. I guess I'll have to send back the CD and poster I got him for Christmas. So, it's going to be one of THOSE days. You know, the surreal, pinch myself to see if I'm less than comatose, take deep breath breaks every, oh, 15 seconds...

A.'s daddy died. He was old with Alzheimer's, it shouldn't have been unexpected...but, it always is. Even if you haven't seen them in years, even if they are disagreeable, absent, or even abusive...parents have a hold that exceeds space, time...and even death. They can reach out from the grave and snag you when you least expect it. It is their final revenge.

A., and all of us that know her, raised a glass of Scotch to Daddy, and wished him god's speed on his journey. Theirs is a story worth telling. I'm not the best one to tell it.You should REALLY hear A. tell it in her southern drawl, with her singular animation! What I can eulogize is Daddy's legacy.

A. is the younger of two sisters born to Daddy and Mamma in hometown, Arkansas. Theirs was a marriage of mutual respect - love - but, mostly convenience. Daddy and Mamma both wanted children, they had an understanding. An understanding that functioned well enough to survive for close to 50 years. A.'s sister appears to be her mother's child...A. was all Daddy's. He taught her to drink Scotch. He showed her what it meant to be a STRONG southern woman...not overwhelmed with convention or appearance. He challenged her to think for herself. And, all this serves her well, as the road she travels is not the easy path.

A. is not a couple. She was married once, inadvisedly it turns out, and the other relationships have never really clicked. I think she may see that as a problem, in the way that most of us long for a special connection, but A. seems to have more than compensated with a system of love and support from friends that have endured from high school and college, and have been gathered throughout her New England home town and travels. Friends that stick closer than "a family"...but, we grieve for what "is not".

A. has talent, passion, courage...all provided, at least in part, by Daddy. She struggles with bipolar disorder, which she manages well with medication and therapy...but, look at all the great creative geniuses...this comes with that territory (and I blame her mother).

A. writes, wonderfully, hysterically, with an intuitive, quirky insight. She's thoughtful AND spontaneous. She's analytical. She reads, everything, and I'm convinced, has a photographic memory...or at least a partial photographic memory...at least she remembers what and who she reads. She knows everything and has been everywhere...but, because of Daddy, she is teacher, not a braggart.

There could be regrets...A. has been estranged from her parents and sister's family for years. I hope not. It is what it is...and always will be. I don't think Daddy has a problem understanding that.

Daddy should be proud of his little "legacy"...I have no doubt he is...I am...and I'm profoundly grateful for the circumstances that brought her into my life.

If You Follow Me....

I've been chronicling my efforts to not drink on "Excellent Adventures". One of the reasons I wanted to stop, was because I haven't been feeling well, and wanted to know how drinking a couple of glasses of wine everyday was affecting my stamina. Well, guess what, after two weeks, I'm beginning to believe that I actually feel better after a drink...or two.

I rarely drink to excess. I don't like feeling out of control. I definitely don't like feeling hung over. What I do appreciate is the anesthetic value.

I have not been feeling too good. I'm tired. I'm very gassy and bloated. My arms bother me a GREAT deal! There's a fatigue and pain in my biceps that radiates to my hands and fingers. It's a kin to the "hitting the funny bone" feeling. Or a pulling-pain. I think it's definitely muscular, as opposed to my joints, but, the other idea is that it's neural. It could have something to do with my spinal stenosis. My massage therapist worked exclusively on my arms and left shoulder blade, which has been a historic problem...but, it doesn't seem to have impacted the pain, except for bruising and THAT pain!

A new wrinkle, is the ill feeling I've been having every evening. I usually feel better after I have dinner, but it's an odd sensation. A truly achy, diseased feeling, like the flu.

So, what I'm doing is documenting this new-ish physical wrinkle to try and keep some sort of "track".

I do believe that most of my maladies are caused by the hormonal fluctuations of menopause. I do have spinal stenosis of the lower lumbar vertebrae, and this causes pain and fatigue in my legs. My upper back hasn't ever been MRI'd, but, it stands to reason that the congenitally small openings in my spinal column could continue all the way up and affect my arms and hands....