Thursday, March 30, 2006
He's gone
He's gone. 11:30PM, March 29th. The funeral's set for Friday. There's more, but trying to write those three sentences just took me 20 minutes of re-writing, so I think I'll just grab a Diet Coke and join everybody else in the kitchen.
Monday, March 27, 2006
The Watchers
I'm flying out to Baton Rouge tomorrow. The nurses have told Stepmom that she needs to call me and Sport and let us know that it's time to come home. He's still alive, but his kidneys have completely stopped working. So I have a one-way ticket and I'm leaving kiddo here - she'll stay with her dad while I'm gone. At some point, Ex and kiddo will drive my car down to Baton Rouge and then we'll all drive back up to Austin together.
I need to take a second to talk about how incredibly helpful and supportive Ex has been. His dad died of cancer before Ex and I ever met. When he was diagnosed, the cancer had spread through pretty much his entire body - the story is they diagnosed him with stomach cancer and sent him in for a surgery that usually takes a couple of hours. Forty minutes later, the surgeons walked out with the statement that the cancer was in his diaphragm and his lungs and his stomach and there was no way they could cut it out. They gave him six months. He lived for a little over two years, going through chemo and radiation and finally getting sent home to die, because there was"nothing else they could do." So when Ex says "I know how you feel", I know it's not just hollow bullshit - he really does. The only real variation here is the type of cancer.
There are two funny stories about Ex's dad - one is that when he was diagnosed, he asked the doctor, "Guess I should stop smoking, huh?" and the doctor looked at him and said, "Why? You've got six months - might as well have fun." A doctor after my own heart. The other story involves Ex and his dad shopping for suits - one for Ex to wear to the funeral and, well one for his dad to wear to the same event. Ex says he doesn't remember much about the trip, except for his dad saying, "Whatever you do, don't bury me in brown socks." I don't know why, but those stories make me laugh every time I think about them. They tell me a lot about a guy that I wish I'd gotten to meet - even now. And if anybody is sitting there thinking, "Hm...talking about Ex's dad - way to distract yourself from your own dad, Laura." I have two words for you: Fuckin' DUH.
Anyway, last week, I spent an evening at Ex's house, drinking red wine and laughing and crying and remembering how we used to be best friends, and taking full advantage of the fact that Ex knows me so well. The next morning I felt 5 pounds lighter. Ex paid for tomorrow's plane ticket and the driving thing was his idea. He's also made it very clear that I don't *have* to accept anything that makes me uncomfortable; he knows I'm not terribly good at accepting emotional generosities.
LIttle side note - depression and stress are fun - I'm watching "Point of no Return" and fucking CRYING at the part where Maggie asks "will you help me?" and gah! Somebody save me from myself.
Other than watching silly spy girl movies, I'm also drinking some beer, typing this and doing everything I can to avoid getting ready for tomorrow's trip - the catbox might even get cleaned. I want to be there, in the arms of my family and with my brothers and my step-mother (and Sweet Jesus, that woman is a fucking rock) and my grandparents and I want to hear that south Louisiana accent and sit in the recliner at my dad's house and I want to go. But I know that once I get there, my dad won't come out to greet me, won't come out in the living room, and with the way things are going, he may not even know I'm there. I won't see sick dad, I'll see dying dad. I'm going to Louisiana to watch my dad die. Getting up in a big ol' hurry and packing for that just doesn't seem all that pressing, especially not when there are two more cold Negra Modelos in the fridge, and Bridget Fonda and Gabriel Byrne are denying their sexual chemistry on my TV. Reality can wait another 45 minutes.
I need to take a second to talk about how incredibly helpful and supportive Ex has been. His dad died of cancer before Ex and I ever met. When he was diagnosed, the cancer had spread through pretty much his entire body - the story is they diagnosed him with stomach cancer and sent him in for a surgery that usually takes a couple of hours. Forty minutes later, the surgeons walked out with the statement that the cancer was in his diaphragm and his lungs and his stomach and there was no way they could cut it out. They gave him six months. He lived for a little over two years, going through chemo and radiation and finally getting sent home to die, because there was"nothing else they could do." So when Ex says "I know how you feel", I know it's not just hollow bullshit - he really does. The only real variation here is the type of cancer.
There are two funny stories about Ex's dad - one is that when he was diagnosed, he asked the doctor, "Guess I should stop smoking, huh?" and the doctor looked at him and said, "Why? You've got six months - might as well have fun." A doctor after my own heart. The other story involves Ex and his dad shopping for suits - one for Ex to wear to the funeral and, well one for his dad to wear to the same event. Ex says he doesn't remember much about the trip, except for his dad saying, "Whatever you do, don't bury me in brown socks." I don't know why, but those stories make me laugh every time I think about them. They tell me a lot about a guy that I wish I'd gotten to meet - even now. And if anybody is sitting there thinking, "Hm...talking about Ex's dad - way to distract yourself from your own dad, Laura." I have two words for you: Fuckin' DUH.
Anyway, last week, I spent an evening at Ex's house, drinking red wine and laughing and crying and remembering how we used to be best friends, and taking full advantage of the fact that Ex knows me so well. The next morning I felt 5 pounds lighter. Ex paid for tomorrow's plane ticket and the driving thing was his idea. He's also made it very clear that I don't *have* to accept anything that makes me uncomfortable; he knows I'm not terribly good at accepting emotional generosities.
LIttle side note - depression and stress are fun - I'm watching "Point of no Return" and fucking CRYING at the part where Maggie asks "will you help me?" and gah! Somebody save me from myself.
Other than watching silly spy girl movies, I'm also drinking some beer, typing this and doing everything I can to avoid getting ready for tomorrow's trip - the catbox might even get cleaned. I want to be there, in the arms of my family and with my brothers and my step-mother (and Sweet Jesus, that woman is a fucking rock) and my grandparents and I want to hear that south Louisiana accent and sit in the recliner at my dad's house and I want to go. But I know that once I get there, my dad won't come out to greet me, won't come out in the living room, and with the way things are going, he may not even know I'm there. I won't see sick dad, I'll see dying dad. I'm going to Louisiana to watch my dad die. Getting up in a big ol' hurry and packing for that just doesn't seem all that pressing, especially not when there are two more cold Negra Modelos in the fridge, and Bridget Fonda and Gabriel Byrne are denying their sexual chemistry on my TV. Reality can wait another 45 minutes.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Sue says:
I have 2 teenagers and I also try to be loving when we all leave in the morning. However, sometimes I just have to tell them - you know, in nature, some mothers eat their babies when they are born. Not very nice, I know, but better than fuck you! Hang in there, there will be better days!
Which made me laugh out loud. I think next time kiddo gives me lip, I'll tell her "y'know, if we were tigers I totally would've eaten you by now" and see what happens.
Last night and this morning were much, much better. And the thing is, the good times are really the norm with us. Which is why it is just so hard when we have a problem. That, and she knows me really well and knows exactly what to say to hurt me. My Dirty Hippie Theory of Parenting says that this is normal, and my job is to tell her that that's wrong and set a better example of how to act by NOT responding in kind. Which, as we all know, is waaaaay easier said than done.
In other news, I have a headache that feels like somebody is pushing a spike through the back of my head and out my right eye. Whoo.
I have 2 teenagers and I also try to be loving when we all leave in the morning. However, sometimes I just have to tell them - you know, in nature, some mothers eat their babies when they are born. Not very nice, I know, but better than fuck you! Hang in there, there will be better days!
Which made me laugh out loud. I think next time kiddo gives me lip, I'll tell her "y'know, if we were tigers I totally would've eaten you by now" and see what happens.
Last night and this morning were much, much better. And the thing is, the good times are really the norm with us. Which is why it is just so hard when we have a problem. That, and she knows me really well and knows exactly what to say to hurt me. My Dirty Hippie Theory of Parenting says that this is normal, and my job is to tell her that that's wrong and set a better example of how to act by NOT responding in kind. Which, as we all know, is waaaaay easier said than done.
In other news, I have a headache that feels like somebody is pushing a spike through the back of my head and out my right eye. Whoo.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
teenagers, bah
Ok, so.
While my daughter and I do, indeed, cuss like sailors most of the time*, I try really hard NOT to curse at her when I'm mad. It's difficult, because nobody can provoke like an intelligent teenaged girl - but I try. I also try, when leaving her for an extended period of time, like the workday, to not leave on a bad note. I like for the last thing that I sayto her before I go to work to be "I love you", not "Jesus, Kiddo - what the hell is wrong with you??" I do have a commute that goes from a suburb north of Austin all the way to just south of downtown. That's 22 miles of whoknowswhat. Maybe I'm a little more paranoid right now than before, but honestly - I've always tried to leave in the morning with "I love you!"
HOWEVER. When you spend an hour* trying to wake somebody up, and the first thing they say is "GO AWAY!!", and then when they ask you why you woke them up and hour later than they wanted and you explain that you'd spent that hour trying to wake them up and they respond with "God, whatever, just...don't talk to me right now!", you tend to get a little upset.
What I wanted to say?
"Jeezus Christ, you have an alarm clock and you're 14, you little bitch. Lay off."
What I actually said??
"OOooo.K. [deep breath]"
She did apologize for yelling at me, but with the disclaimer that "I just know I'll have a horrible day."
Then when I was dropping her off at her friend's house (it's on the way out of the complex and they walk to the bus stop together) I reminded her to PLEASE pick up a package from the rental office for me. See - that package contains my phone charger and my glasses; my stepmother had to mail them to me because I'd left them at my dad's house. I was so distracted when we left that I almost forgot my laptop, so I think glasses and phone charger are fairly minor.
However, this means my phone is totally useless. Little review for those in the back - I have a teenager and a terminally ill father. I'd sort of like to be able to make and receive phone calls. So getting my charger back is important to me. Anyway, I reminded kiddo again about it as she was getting out of the car this morning, and she said "I will, if you stop nagging me about it."**
*cough*
What I wanted to say?
"Fuck you. You bug the holy living shit out of me when I need to pick you up for something, frequently calling me waaaay before I'm supposed to be there, asking if I'm on my way yet, even though I've made you late for ONE THING in 14 years, and you're going to pull this manipulative, passive/aggressive bullshit on me about something that I NEED you to do because I don't get home in time to do it?? Kiss my ass, you spoiled brat."
What I actually said??
"Please try to remember. I love you. Have a good day."
Before you hit the comment button, I KNOW that it's my fault that she's spoiled. I know that the fact that it's easier for me to just do something myself instead of trying to get my kid to do it is why she doesn't have any chores, and that resenting that is futile and just a tad martyrish. OK? I know that she and I tend to relate to each other more like roommates than mother/daughter, and I can make all the excuses about only child, single mom, only model I know, blah blah blee, but the fact is, if I want her to talk to me like a mother rather than a peer, I need to hold up my end of that. OK?? I GET IT.
But "getting it" doesn't make this shit any easier and it doesn't make the answers just appear, like overnight graffiti, on a wall somewhere.
Ok, now? We're getting along fine and she's done her homework and apologized and is doing some cool artsy-craftsy thing involving a wooden wine box and some acrylic paints. Somebody look up "mercurial" and call me back.
*My child did invent the term whorebucket. C'mon, that's good.
**Ok, I just talked to her about that, and she said "that was a joo-ooke", which? Whatever dude. It didn't sound like a joke at the time and it still fucking pissed me off. And I told her that - without the f-word. REALLY.
While my daughter and I do, indeed, cuss like sailors most of the time*, I try really hard NOT to curse at her when I'm mad. It's difficult, because nobody can provoke like an intelligent teenaged girl - but I try. I also try, when leaving her for an extended period of time, like the workday, to not leave on a bad note. I like for the last thing that I sayto her before I go to work to be "I love you", not "Jesus, Kiddo - what the hell is wrong with you??" I do have a commute that goes from a suburb north of Austin all the way to just south of downtown. That's 22 miles of whoknowswhat. Maybe I'm a little more paranoid right now than before, but honestly - I've always tried to leave in the morning with "I love you!"
HOWEVER. When you spend an hour* trying to wake somebody up, and the first thing they say is "GO AWAY!!", and then when they ask you why you woke them up and hour later than they wanted and you explain that you'd spent that hour trying to wake them up and they respond with "God, whatever, just...don't talk to me right now!", you tend to get a little upset.
What I wanted to say?
"Jeezus Christ, you have an alarm clock and you're 14, you little bitch. Lay off."
What I actually said??
"OOooo.K. [deep breath]"
She did apologize for yelling at me, but with the disclaimer that "I just know I'll have a horrible day."
Then when I was dropping her off at her friend's house (it's on the way out of the complex and they walk to the bus stop together) I reminded her to PLEASE pick up a package from the rental office for me. See - that package contains my phone charger and my glasses; my stepmother had to mail them to me because I'd left them at my dad's house. I was so distracted when we left that I almost forgot my laptop, so I think glasses and phone charger are fairly minor.
However, this means my phone is totally useless. Little review for those in the back - I have a teenager and a terminally ill father. I'd sort of like to be able to make and receive phone calls. So getting my charger back is important to me. Anyway, I reminded kiddo again about it as she was getting out of the car this morning, and she said "I will, if you stop nagging me about it."**
*cough*
What I wanted to say?
"Fuck you. You bug the holy living shit out of me when I need to pick you up for something, frequently calling me waaaay before I'm supposed to be there, asking if I'm on my way yet, even though I've made you late for ONE THING in 14 years, and you're going to pull this manipulative, passive/aggressive bullshit on me about something that I NEED you to do because I don't get home in time to do it?? Kiss my ass, you spoiled brat."
What I actually said??
"Please try to remember. I love you. Have a good day."
Before you hit the comment button, I KNOW that it's my fault that she's spoiled. I know that the fact that it's easier for me to just do something myself instead of trying to get my kid to do it is why she doesn't have any chores, and that resenting that is futile and just a tad martyrish. OK? I know that she and I tend to relate to each other more like roommates than mother/daughter, and I can make all the excuses about only child, single mom, only model I know, blah blah blee, but the fact is, if I want her to talk to me like a mother rather than a peer, I need to hold up my end of that. OK?? I GET IT.
But "getting it" doesn't make this shit any easier and it doesn't make the answers just appear, like overnight graffiti, on a wall somewhere.
Ok, now? We're getting along fine and she's done her homework and apologized and is doing some cool artsy-craftsy thing involving a wooden wine box and some acrylic paints. Somebody look up "mercurial" and call me back.
*My child did invent the term whorebucket. C'mon, that's good.
**Ok, I just talked to her about that, and she said "that was a joo-ooke", which? Whatever dude. It didn't sound like a joke at the time and it still fucking pissed me off. And I told her that - without the f-word. REALLY.
Definitions
I'm finding that "raising a teenager" could also be defined as "learning how to stuff down the urge to yell 'why don't you go fuck yourself, you little shit'" at your offspring.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
eat like Laura - a recipe
a small chunk of tasso, cut up (or a few slices of bacon, but tasso is better)
diced onion (amount is up to you)
tablespoon of minced garlic (what is that in fresh? 3 cloves?)
one fennel bulb, sliced, but not obnoxiously thin (just trust me)
chicken broth or white wine
one can diced tomatoes
whatever seasonings float your boat.
If you're using bacon, fry it down, then get rid of all but about 3 tbsp of the grease. If you're using tasso, heat some olive oil in a pan, then toss in the chunks of tasso. Throw in the garlic and onion and sautee/sweat* it all down. When the onions are nice and soft, add the fennel and swirl it around. Add some chicken broth or white wine (1/4 cup?), clamp a lid on it and let it cook for about 8 minutes - until the fennel has softened just a leeeetle bit. Add the tomatoes and whatever spices you like - I used some parsley, a little extra salt and some cayenne. Stir, turn the heat down and let it cook w/ no lid for...5? minutes, until it's nice and thick. Serve over pasta** with fresh grated parmesan and a big glass of red wine.***
Eat while lusting over Warrick and Nick on the re-run of CSI.
Seriously dude...if Warrick keeps saying stuff like "I can get a print off the air"?? I'm gonna have to take a cold shower. Yowza.
*Yes, I know that sauteeing and sweating are not actually the same thing. My point here is, use whatever method you like to get the onions sort of translucent and soft. Since I am a lazy motherfucker and there was red wine and pretty, pretty men on my TV? I turned the heat down and sweated the onions.
**I recommend penne. I used the last of the angel hair, and it wasn't right - you need something that picks up the sauce.
**I'm drinking Pillar Box Red, a nice sturdy red, available for like $10. It stood up quite nicely to the extra shake of cayenne I put in accidentally. I {{{heart}}} cheap wine.
diced onion (amount is up to you)
tablespoon of minced garlic (what is that in fresh? 3 cloves?)
one fennel bulb, sliced, but not obnoxiously thin (just trust me)
chicken broth or white wine
one can diced tomatoes
whatever seasonings float your boat.
If you're using bacon, fry it down, then get rid of all but about 3 tbsp of the grease. If you're using tasso, heat some olive oil in a pan, then toss in the chunks of tasso. Throw in the garlic and onion and sautee/sweat* it all down. When the onions are nice and soft, add the fennel and swirl it around. Add some chicken broth or white wine (1/4 cup?), clamp a lid on it and let it cook for about 8 minutes - until the fennel has softened just a leeeetle bit. Add the tomatoes and whatever spices you like - I used some parsley, a little extra salt and some cayenne. Stir, turn the heat down and let it cook w/ no lid for...5? minutes, until it's nice and thick. Serve over pasta** with fresh grated parmesan and a big glass of red wine.***
Eat while lusting over Warrick and Nick on the re-run of CSI.
Seriously dude...if Warrick keeps saying stuff like "I can get a print off the air"?? I'm gonna have to take a cold shower. Yowza.
*Yes, I know that sauteeing and sweating are not actually the same thing. My point here is, use whatever method you like to get the onions sort of translucent and soft. Since I am a lazy motherfucker and there was red wine and pretty, pretty men on my TV? I turned the heat down and sweated the onions.
**I recommend penne. I used the last of the angel hair, and it wasn't right - you need something that picks up the sauce.
**I'm drinking Pillar Box Red, a nice sturdy red, available for like $10. It stood up quite nicely to the extra shake of cayenne I put in accidentally. I {{{heart}}} cheap wine.
Monday, March 20, 2006
conversations I can't get out of my head
"Anything you want to ask me? Want to know? Want to say? 'Cause I really feel like this is your last chance."
"Um...I don't know. Were you happy?"
"Yeah. I've had a good life."
"Good. I figured, but I still just wanted to know. Did I, uh....did I do OK?"
"Yeah - you were good. I was always proud of you. I just don't know if I disappointed you."
"No daddy...you didn't disappoint me."
"I really feel like this is it. About the time you get back to Texas, in fact."
"Ok, should I stay another day then??"
"Naah. Hell - if you do that, I might hang on for another three years."
"Shit, in that case, I'm stayin'! Lemme call my boss."
"Laura, I don't want to upset you, but he's in there crying because he thinks it's the last time he'll see you."
"I...I can go back in, or I can stay another day?? What do you think?"
"I don't know. I just don't know"
"Are you OK?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. I just can't stand to see him cry."
"Bye daddy. I love you."
"I love you too kiddo. You did good."
"You too."
"Um...I don't know. Were you happy?"
"Yeah. I've had a good life."
"Good. I figured, but I still just wanted to know. Did I, uh....did I do OK?"
"Yeah - you were good. I was always proud of you. I just don't know if I disappointed you."
"No daddy...you didn't disappoint me."
"I really feel like this is it. About the time you get back to Texas, in fact."
"Ok, should I stay another day then??"
"Naah. Hell - if you do that, I might hang on for another three years."
"Shit, in that case, I'm stayin'! Lemme call my boss."
"Laura, I don't want to upset you, but he's in there crying because he thinks it's the last time he'll see you."
"I...I can go back in, or I can stay another day?? What do you think?"
"I don't know. I just don't know"
"Are you OK?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. I just can't stand to see him cry."
"Bye daddy. I love you."
"I love you too kiddo. You did good."
"You too."
Which sin is envy?*
I've been thinking about jealousy lately, because it seems like anytime one writer says something critical about another writer, third parties immediately start chirping "Jealous! Jealous! You're just jealous!!" as if the only reason one could ever disagree with, or dislike, another writer is jealousy.
Am I jealous of folks like Sarah Bunting and Pamie and Dooce and such? Yes. I absolutely am. They have managed to make a hobby into a money-making enterprise, which is something I have never ever figured out how to do. Am I jealous because I think they're better writers? Not necessarily. I'm not saying they are or are not better writers, just that's not what sparks any envy on my part. I know that I'm a decent writer in my own right - I'm not the next Atwood, semi-colons confuse me and let's not even get started on the whole lay/lie thing, but overall, I can get my point across in writing without making anyone's eyes bleed. (At least I sure hope so. If y'alls eyes are bleeding, dictate a little constructive criticism, OK?)
Here's how I think of it - am I jealous of runway models? Nope, not at all. Those women are genetically different than I am and there is no way on God's green Earth that I will EVER look like them. They are something I am not. However, if you asked me if I'm jealous of fitness models, I'd have to answer yes. Admittedly, those women are gifted genetically, but then again so am I. But they have something I do not - discipline. I am absolutely pea-green with envy of the drive and discipline that those women have in regards to their workout regimen and diet. Do I have a strong body that could do all the things they do? Yes, I do. Do I have the strong mind to go along with it? Nope. I'm jealous of that, because I feel like that's something I *could* change and haven't.
So see, I'm not jealous of writers on the internet, even if they are better than I am (which most of them are.) They are what they are. They can evoke, I can not - the world continues to spin. But I am not so horrible a writer that I couldn't do more with it - if I had a little more discipline and a little more drive and oh, let's not forget, knew that that's what I really wanted to do. See, I'm jealous of the ability to look at one's writing and say "this - THIS is what I want to do with my life", and to make it happen. I can't seem to do that, and it makes me a little green at times.
*I am not now, nor have I ever claimed to be just as good a writer as any of the people I mentioned, or anybody else you might think I'm hinting about. I am also not speaking for anybody except myself because I'm the only person that I really CAN speak for, thank you. I'm not talking to or about you. I'm not ripping anybody and I'm not saying I'm all that. Please just read the words. Thanks.
Am I jealous of folks like Sarah Bunting and Pamie and Dooce and such? Yes. I absolutely am. They have managed to make a hobby into a money-making enterprise, which is something I have never ever figured out how to do. Am I jealous because I think they're better writers? Not necessarily. I'm not saying they are or are not better writers, just that's not what sparks any envy on my part. I know that I'm a decent writer in my own right - I'm not the next Atwood, semi-colons confuse me and let's not even get started on the whole lay/lie thing, but overall, I can get my point across in writing without making anyone's eyes bleed. (At least I sure hope so. If y'alls eyes are bleeding, dictate a little constructive criticism, OK?)
Here's how I think of it - am I jealous of runway models? Nope, not at all. Those women are genetically different than I am and there is no way on God's green Earth that I will EVER look like them. They are something I am not. However, if you asked me if I'm jealous of fitness models, I'd have to answer yes. Admittedly, those women are gifted genetically, but then again so am I. But they have something I do not - discipline. I am absolutely pea-green with envy of the drive and discipline that those women have in regards to their workout regimen and diet. Do I have a strong body that could do all the things they do? Yes, I do. Do I have the strong mind to go along with it? Nope. I'm jealous of that, because I feel like that's something I *could* change and haven't.
So see, I'm not jealous of writers on the internet, even if they are better than I am (which most of them are.) They are what they are. They can evoke, I can not - the world continues to spin. But I am not so horrible a writer that I couldn't do more with it - if I had a little more discipline and a little more drive and oh, let's not forget, knew that that's what I really wanted to do. See, I'm jealous of the ability to look at one's writing and say "this - THIS is what I want to do with my life", and to make it happen. I can't seem to do that, and it makes me a little green at times.
*I am not now, nor have I ever claimed to be just as good a writer as any of the people I mentioned, or anybody else you might think I'm hinting about. I am also not speaking for anybody except myself because I'm the only person that I really CAN speak for, thank you. I'm not talking to or about you. I'm not ripping anybody and I'm not saying I'm all that. Please just read the words. Thanks.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Q&A
Q: Hey Laura! Where ya been?
A: Well, kiddo and I drove to Louisiana last Sunday and came back late Thursday night. Yesterday I slept late, drank a pot of coffee, talked to a couple of people online and then hung out with my mom. Today I'm cleaning house and cooking red beans.
Q: Louisiana, huh? How is everybody?
A: Well, dad's still sick, which he's gonna be for a while - until he dies. Everybody else is about the same.
Q: Wow. You sound kind of, uh, flip about the whole dad thing.
A: Bite me. Or is that too flip?
Q: Dude!
A: Oh, Ok. Look, here's the deal. Dad is dying. We all know it, and we're all sort of just waiting at this point. I have a few choices here, all of which fall into two categories - wail and moan and fret until it happens, or live my life and deal with it the best I can until it happens. I choose Plan B. Unfortunately, my way of dealing with things is an uncomfortable bluntness and a black sense of humor.
Q: Ok, fair enough. How's the kid?
A: Oh, she's OK I guess - let's ask. She says "good...?" She's doing OK, I suppose. As well as any 14-year old kid can do when she's lost a grandmother, had her parents get divorced, watched a big chunk of her childhood get washed away and watched her grandfather deteriorate all in the course of 3 years. She's doing pretty fuckin' peachy, all things considered.
Q: What about you?
A: Hey - look! Weather!!
Q: AHEM.
A: Oh, fine. I'm doing OK. I'm probably drinking more than I should, but then again, when aren't I? And I start crying at some strange times, but I'm generally OK. There's not a damn thing I can do about my dad's illness, and leaving his house on Thursday was painful, because both of us are pretty sure it's the last time we'll see each other, but, I'm doing OK in a generally-speaking, holistic sort of way.
Q: What?
A: Look, if you're just going to be obtuse about this, I'm going to quit.
Q: Are you out of wine or something?
A: As a matter of fact, I am, not that that has anything to do with anything. Hmph. Look, the deal is, I'm walking that line between anger and depression and it really sort of sucks. That's all.
Q: Oh. Got it. Wanna change subjects?
A: Yes please.
Q: OOOOh, what are you wearing???
A: Freak.
A: Well, kiddo and I drove to Louisiana last Sunday and came back late Thursday night. Yesterday I slept late, drank a pot of coffee, talked to a couple of people online and then hung out with my mom. Today I'm cleaning house and cooking red beans.
Q: Louisiana, huh? How is everybody?
A: Well, dad's still sick, which he's gonna be for a while - until he dies. Everybody else is about the same.
Q: Wow. You sound kind of, uh, flip about the whole dad thing.
A: Bite me. Or is that too flip?
Q: Dude!
A: Oh, Ok. Look, here's the deal. Dad is dying. We all know it, and we're all sort of just waiting at this point. I have a few choices here, all of which fall into two categories - wail and moan and fret until it happens, or live my life and deal with it the best I can until it happens. I choose Plan B. Unfortunately, my way of dealing with things is an uncomfortable bluntness and a black sense of humor.
Q: Ok, fair enough. How's the kid?
A: Oh, she's OK I guess - let's ask. She says "good...?" She's doing OK, I suppose. As well as any 14-year old kid can do when she's lost a grandmother, had her parents get divorced, watched a big chunk of her childhood get washed away and watched her grandfather deteriorate all in the course of 3 years. She's doing pretty fuckin' peachy, all things considered.
Q: What about you?
A: Hey - look! Weather!!
Q: AHEM.
A: Oh, fine. I'm doing OK. I'm probably drinking more than I should, but then again, when aren't I? And I start crying at some strange times, but I'm generally OK. There's not a damn thing I can do about my dad's illness, and leaving his house on Thursday was painful, because both of us are pretty sure it's the last time we'll see each other, but, I'm doing OK in a generally-speaking, holistic sort of way.
Q: What?
A: Look, if you're just going to be obtuse about this, I'm going to quit.
Q: Are you out of wine or something?
A: As a matter of fact, I am, not that that has anything to do with anything. Hmph. Look, the deal is, I'm walking that line between anger and depression and it really sort of sucks. That's all.
Q: Oh. Got it. Wanna change subjects?
A: Yes please.
Q: OOOOh, what are you wearing???
A: Freak.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
This 3 Blind Moose stuff still sucks, but I had to finish it.
In my teeny little corner of the internet, I have the coolest readers in the whole world. Thank you very very very much for the sweet comments.
Miz S had some specific questions:
This is definitely not the time to give up booze. Your poor Dad. I hope they can get the pain under control. Is your step-mom checking into hospice care or is it not quite that time yet? What about your siblings? Are you guys close? Seems like a good time to stand together. I'm really sorry, Laura. How awful.
Yeah, the booze thing has been shot to hell. I haven't had any hamburgers though! Whoo! Go me!!
His pain seems to be under control - he has morphine patches and is taking liquid morphine right on schedule (about every three hours.) My stepmother said that they're keeping him on pain meds so that the pain doesn't get too bad, because like father like daughter, he tends to wait till the last minute before he takes anything, and then he has to wait for it to kick in and he's miserable for no reason. So, she has taken over the meds regimen as much as he'll let her and is making sure that he's not hurting too much. But it's still difficult and exhausting for him to move around, even something as simple as changing from laying in bed to sitting up. He also said that due to "[his] medical condition it feels like [he's] sitting on a grapefruit." Hence the wincing and the not sitting up too much.
He was set to start up with hospice over the weekend, but due to the Monday doctor's appointment and the possibility of being put in the hospital and the wrench that can throw in hospice care, they put off making any official hospice arrangements until Monday. I haven't heard anything from StepMom today (and no, I haven't called. I'm not sure what to say today - "anything changed?" "nope" I think - hell I don't know what I think. Eh - this ramble's getting to long for parentheses - moving on) so I'm assuming that he decided not to go with any other procedures and hospice has been called in.
The Bros and I are not super-close, but we're not really distant either. We get along fine when we're all together, but we tend to not get in touch with each other as much as we should. It seems to be genetic, this total inability to keep up any kind of correspondence. (My dad has (has! has! no past tense yet) it too.) Sport and McBrother are pretty torn up and at various points, I got to sit down with StepMom and each brother to talk about stuff. We couldn't quite manage all four of us at the same time, but it's OK. I think all of us are on the same page regarding funeral arrangements and such. I also told StepMom that when I say "do you need anything?" one of the things I specifically mean is "when/if you need me to get in somebody's face about arrangements, I'm there. Or if you need me to start shooing people out of the house? I'm there. Hell - if you need me to clean the kitchen because you just can't deal with it? I'm there."
The three of us (the bros and I) are all of the opinion that if dad wants to be cremated, we cremate him. If he wants to be buried upside-down in the backyard, we bury him upside-down in the backyard. Whatever. I'm of the belief that we get to control so little in this life, we should at least have control of our disposals, y'know? StepMom feels the same way, so the four of us can present sort of a united front. This is only an issue because dad has maintained for a long time that he wants to be cremated. Stepmom's not big on it, but she'll do what he wants. The Grand'rents (specifically Grandma) didn't seem to like that idea. Whatever. I have no problem getting up in my Grandmother's face. That sounds awful, like I'm going to throw down with a woman who just lost her only child. It's not like that, it's just that Grandma can be sort of, ooooh let's call it obstinate about things at time. She's a sweet, loving woman, but she tends to latch onto an idea and jeez. Anyway.
Another perc to being the oldest kid is that I think I'll get taken more seriously than the Bros will. I suppose RHIP after all. And no, I'm not looking for a fight. But I am prepared to deal with my Grandma's grousing. I think she's really only happy if she has something to bitch about, so I just have a sinking feeling that she'll bitch about the cremation around StepMom and...feh.
So here's where we sit - waiting for the other shoe to drop. I'm not crying as I type this, like I was last night. I wouldn't say I'm doing better necessarily, I'm just doing differently. And I promise that I'll write something light again. Really, I will.
Thank you guys for your patience and support. Huge internet hugs.
Miz S had some specific questions:
This is definitely not the time to give up booze. Your poor Dad. I hope they can get the pain under control. Is your step-mom checking into hospice care or is it not quite that time yet? What about your siblings? Are you guys close? Seems like a good time to stand together. I'm really sorry, Laura. How awful.
Yeah, the booze thing has been shot to hell. I haven't had any hamburgers though! Whoo! Go me!!
His pain seems to be under control - he has morphine patches and is taking liquid morphine right on schedule (about every three hours.) My stepmother said that they're keeping him on pain meds so that the pain doesn't get too bad, because like father like daughter, he tends to wait till the last minute before he takes anything, and then he has to wait for it to kick in and he's miserable for no reason. So, she has taken over the meds regimen as much as he'll let her and is making sure that he's not hurting too much. But it's still difficult and exhausting for him to move around, even something as simple as changing from laying in bed to sitting up. He also said that due to "[his] medical condition it feels like [he's] sitting on a grapefruit." Hence the wincing and the not sitting up too much.
He was set to start up with hospice over the weekend, but due to the Monday doctor's appointment and the possibility of being put in the hospital and the wrench that can throw in hospice care, they put off making any official hospice arrangements until Monday. I haven't heard anything from StepMom today (and no, I haven't called. I'm not sure what to say today - "anything changed?" "nope" I think - hell I don't know what I think. Eh - this ramble's getting to long for parentheses - moving on) so I'm assuming that he decided not to go with any other procedures and hospice has been called in.
The Bros and I are not super-close, but we're not really distant either. We get along fine when we're all together, but we tend to not get in touch with each other as much as we should. It seems to be genetic, this total inability to keep up any kind of correspondence. (My dad has (has! has! no past tense yet) it too.) Sport and McBrother are pretty torn up and at various points, I got to sit down with StepMom and each brother to talk about stuff. We couldn't quite manage all four of us at the same time, but it's OK. I think all of us are on the same page regarding funeral arrangements and such. I also told StepMom that when I say "do you need anything?" one of the things I specifically mean is "when/if you need me to get in somebody's face about arrangements, I'm there. Or if you need me to start shooing people out of the house? I'm there. Hell - if you need me to clean the kitchen because you just can't deal with it? I'm there."
The three of us (the bros and I) are all of the opinion that if dad wants to be cremated, we cremate him. If he wants to be buried upside-down in the backyard, we bury him upside-down in the backyard. Whatever. I'm of the belief that we get to control so little in this life, we should at least have control of our disposals, y'know? StepMom feels the same way, so the four of us can present sort of a united front. This is only an issue because dad has maintained for a long time that he wants to be cremated. Stepmom's not big on it, but she'll do what he wants. The Grand'rents (specifically Grandma) didn't seem to like that idea. Whatever. I have no problem getting up in my Grandmother's face. That sounds awful, like I'm going to throw down with a woman who just lost her only child. It's not like that, it's just that Grandma can be sort of, ooooh let's call it obstinate about things at time. She's a sweet, loving woman, but she tends to latch onto an idea and jeez. Anyway.
Another perc to being the oldest kid is that I think I'll get taken more seriously than the Bros will. I suppose RHIP after all. And no, I'm not looking for a fight. But I am prepared to deal with my Grandma's grousing. I think she's really only happy if she has something to bitch about, so I just have a sinking feeling that she'll bitch about the cremation around StepMom and...feh.
So here's where we sit - waiting for the other shoe to drop. I'm not crying as I type this, like I was last night. I wouldn't say I'm doing better necessarily, I'm just doing differently. And I promise that I'll write something light again. Really, I will.
Thank you guys for your patience and support. Huge internet hugs.
needless to say, that no booze for Lent thing has gone bye-by
Kiddo and I got back from Louisiana about 10:30 tonight. Kiddo is at a friend's house and I'm "enjoying" some fairly awful cab (3 Blind Moose, I don't care how cute your name is, your cab sucks) and an episode of Law & Order SVU. It's a weeknight and she's spending the night and I'm drinking because we both need a little decompression.
My dad was first diagnosed with colon cancer in November 1999. When they went in to check things out and do the re-section, they discovered that the cancer had spread to 3 of his lymph nodes. They removed a section of colon and the lymph nodes and he went through a round of chemo. He was clear for a long time.
In 2002, he went in for his 3-year checkup. I remember when we talked before that - he was flip about it, "Oh yeah, 3 years, it's just part of the deal." I also remember the tone of his voice when he called me after that appointment, when he called to tell me that the cancer was back. There was a mass in his lungs and in his stomach.
He went through chemo-therapy again. Because of the location, surgery and radiation weren't options, so he went through chemo again and again and again. He lost his hair, and he threw up. When his white blood-cell count was too low to go through chemo, he got $6000 shots that made him hurt almost as much as the chemo. The one treatment that actually seemed to have any effect on the cancer was the stuff that made him so sick he said, no...never again. Everything else just seemed to keep things in check.
A few weeks ago, he went into the hospital because he was having problems with his kidneys. I wrote about this - in the end, he wound up having stints put in so that things would work right. But the doctor said then, that with all the tumors, he wasn't sure how long the stints would work. That was when they told him he had a few months.
Last Friday, my step-mother called me. She said that his kidneys were giving him problems again, and the doctors told him there was nothing else they could do. They said "it's just a matter of time." They talked about checking for a blockage, but that got put off till today (Monday.)
My dad has spent 6 1/2 years with cancer. During this time, I've never seen him look or even sound sick. I've seen him bald and I've heard him tired and pissed off, but never ever sick.
The man I saw this weekend was not my dad. He was a man who needed help to get out of bed and had to walk with a cane. He was a man who lost track of what was going on with his checkbook and didn't joke his way through the uncomfortable stuff. He whistled when he breathed, and he winced when he sat down and the only thing he ate all day Sunday was an orange. This man was a sick man. This was a dying man.
He kept telling me that if I saw anything, or could think of, anything I wanted, to let him know, because he didn't know what to leave me. And I kept telling him, "Dad, I don't care" because I don't. I just want my daddy to get better, and if I can't have that, I don't know. I guess I want this over with. I don't want him to go through kidney failure - I don't care how "peaceful" it's supposed to be. It's a long, drawn-out death for a man that doesn't deserve it.
I suppose I should be grateful for the chance to give him one more hug, and tell him I love him one more time, and hear him talk like he used to during his all-too-infrequent moments of lucidity. I should be grateful. I suppose I am. But I think right now, I'm too angry to be truly grateful.
They went to the doctor today, and there's really nothing they can do. Well, they can put in tubes so that he drains the way you're supposed to drain, but they can't guarantee him how long that will work. He's supposed to let them know tomorrow if he wants to do it, but both my step-mom and I are pretty sure that he won't. Which is fine. I don't think I'd like to live with drains in my body either, so I can't blame him. If they could tell him definitely it would make things better for 6 months, he'd probably do it (these are his words via Stepmom) and again? I understand. But he's tired of living this way, and he's tired of no guarantees and, he's tired.
So they say that he'll get to a point where he just eats less and less and sleeps more and more until he just doesn't wake up. And it's so hard to think about a man who hunted and could fix just about anything and coached T-ball and took me fishing and fathered three children and knew everything about everything just fading away like that.
I'm just pissed right now. I'm pissed that I wasted time thinking my dad didn't care and I'm pissed that I waited so long between phone calls and I'm pissed off that this is how he has to go. I've spent a long time very serenely saying that there must be some higher power, there has to be something up there running the show, because if it's all just random, if good people die horrible deaths for no reason, then I'm just giving up now.
Higher power, if you have a reason for this, I'd like to see it right about now.
My dad was first diagnosed with colon cancer in November 1999. When they went in to check things out and do the re-section, they discovered that the cancer had spread to 3 of his lymph nodes. They removed a section of colon and the lymph nodes and he went through a round of chemo. He was clear for a long time.
In 2002, he went in for his 3-year checkup. I remember when we talked before that - he was flip about it, "Oh yeah, 3 years, it's just part of the deal." I also remember the tone of his voice when he called me after that appointment, when he called to tell me that the cancer was back. There was a mass in his lungs and in his stomach.
He went through chemo-therapy again. Because of the location, surgery and radiation weren't options, so he went through chemo again and again and again. He lost his hair, and he threw up. When his white blood-cell count was too low to go through chemo, he got $6000 shots that made him hurt almost as much as the chemo. The one treatment that actually seemed to have any effect on the cancer was the stuff that made him so sick he said, no...never again. Everything else just seemed to keep things in check.
A few weeks ago, he went into the hospital because he was having problems with his kidneys. I wrote about this - in the end, he wound up having stints put in so that things would work right. But the doctor said then, that with all the tumors, he wasn't sure how long the stints would work. That was when they told him he had a few months.
Last Friday, my step-mother called me. She said that his kidneys were giving him problems again, and the doctors told him there was nothing else they could do. They said "it's just a matter of time." They talked about checking for a blockage, but that got put off till today (Monday.)
My dad has spent 6 1/2 years with cancer. During this time, I've never seen him look or even sound sick. I've seen him bald and I've heard him tired and pissed off, but never ever sick.
The man I saw this weekend was not my dad. He was a man who needed help to get out of bed and had to walk with a cane. He was a man who lost track of what was going on with his checkbook and didn't joke his way through the uncomfortable stuff. He whistled when he breathed, and he winced when he sat down and the only thing he ate all day Sunday was an orange. This man was a sick man. This was a dying man.
He kept telling me that if I saw anything, or could think of, anything I wanted, to let him know, because he didn't know what to leave me. And I kept telling him, "Dad, I don't care" because I don't. I just want my daddy to get better, and if I can't have that, I don't know. I guess I want this over with. I don't want him to go through kidney failure - I don't care how "peaceful" it's supposed to be. It's a long, drawn-out death for a man that doesn't deserve it.
I suppose I should be grateful for the chance to give him one more hug, and tell him I love him one more time, and hear him talk like he used to during his all-too-infrequent moments of lucidity. I should be grateful. I suppose I am. But I think right now, I'm too angry to be truly grateful.
They went to the doctor today, and there's really nothing they can do. Well, they can put in tubes so that he drains the way you're supposed to drain, but they can't guarantee him how long that will work. He's supposed to let them know tomorrow if he wants to do it, but both my step-mom and I are pretty sure that he won't. Which is fine. I don't think I'd like to live with drains in my body either, so I can't blame him. If they could tell him definitely it would make things better for 6 months, he'd probably do it (these are his words via Stepmom) and again? I understand. But he's tired of living this way, and he's tired of no guarantees and, he's tired.
So they say that he'll get to a point where he just eats less and less and sleeps more and more until he just doesn't wake up. And it's so hard to think about a man who hunted and could fix just about anything and coached T-ball and took me fishing and fathered three children and knew everything about everything just fading away like that.
I'm just pissed right now. I'm pissed that I wasted time thinking my dad didn't care and I'm pissed that I waited so long between phone calls and I'm pissed off that this is how he has to go. I've spent a long time very serenely saying that there must be some higher power, there has to be something up there running the show, because if it's all just random, if good people die horrible deaths for no reason, then I'm just giving up now.
Higher power, if you have a reason for this, I'd like to see it right about now.
Friday, March 03, 2006
hittin' the road
I had a lovely time with Ms. Laura last night. We talked about kids and jobs and ex-husbands and everything except our uteruses. She even bought dinner. Hmm - sure hope she doesn't expect me to put out now.
Then I got up this morning to find the screen knocked out of my kitchen window and Charlie, the escape artist cat, missing.
And just now I got a phone call from my stepmother that they've changed my dad's status from "a few months" to "nothing we can do" and "it's a matter of time." The hospice folks are going to visit them later today to give them more info and do the, er, hospice thing.
I'm packing my crap in over here and heading home for the day. I'm going to pack some crap, hope my cat came back home (I locked Louie in my room and left the escape hatch open - that strategy worked last time Houdini, er, Charlie escaped) do some quick cleaning so my mom doesn't despair too badly that she raised a pig and then tomorrow morning I'm heading to Louisiana.
I'd already planned on going over Spring Break (3/11 - 3/18) but when I asked my stepmom if I needed to come down now, or if I could wait, she sounded pretty hesitant before she answered. And y'know what? Even if some miracle happens (Hi! Denial stage!) will I regret one extra visit with my dad? No.
Then I got up this morning to find the screen knocked out of my kitchen window and Charlie, the escape artist cat, missing.
And just now I got a phone call from my stepmother that they've changed my dad's status from "a few months" to "nothing we can do" and "it's a matter of time." The hospice folks are going to visit them later today to give them more info and do the, er, hospice thing.
I'm packing my crap in over here and heading home for the day. I'm going to pack some crap, hope my cat came back home (I locked Louie in my room and left the escape hatch open - that strategy worked last time Houdini, er, Charlie escaped) do some quick cleaning so my mom doesn't despair too badly that she raised a pig and then tomorrow morning I'm heading to Louisiana.
I'd already planned on going over Spring Break (3/11 - 3/18) but when I asked my stepmom if I needed to come down now, or if I could wait, she sounded pretty hesitant before she answered. And y'know what? Even if some miracle happens (Hi! Denial stage!) will I regret one extra visit with my dad? No.
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