How have I procrastinated composing this post about my travels, let me count the ways…
Watering newly planted shrubs this morning, I listened to the neighborhood awaken from its post-hangover slumber. Miles away, I could detect the faint hum of traffic passing over a bridge, alluding to the bygone days of horse drawn carriages, with the rhythmic clip clop of car wheels passing over concrete joints at regular intervals. The smell of dryer sheets and fresh laundry permeated the cool breeze announcing Fall would begin revealing herself soon as the well dressed seasonal matriarch that she is.
They neighborhood rested peacefully around me as I made preparations for what I consider to be bigger and better things. Maybe not really bigger and better, but certainly a change of scenery. Ironic, for the neighborhood to lightly brush against my leg in such a surreal fashion like a scolded cat. It was almost as if I managed to hurt her feelings in one of my earlier tirades when I expressed scorn for my geography. I’m not that easy to win over, and I’m not sure if she is willing to work any harder…
I’m escaping this cracker box my husband likes to call home for the next eight days. We are off to explore the pacific northwest and bask in cooler temperatures and a change of <strike>attitude</strike> temperature. As a good faith gesture, I’m leaving my laptop at home so I can bring my own camera, a trashy novel, and a sketchbook in its place. I will trade favors with my beloved in exchange for occasional use of his computer, but for those I miss I will catch up with you once I return. Cheers!
Normally, Patches would post this. Unfortunately, when I translate encounters with my in-laws (the One Eyes) into third person, the context shifts, I sound all bitter and non-compassionate. I feel that way frequently, but not constantly. They’ve been bitter, self-entitled complainers since I met them, but the dementia and inability to care for themselves, has only become obvious in the last year.
I’m not so callous that hold a person’s diminishing health, and mental capacity against them. Aging is an humbling experience and often propagates acrimony. My understanding would be more generous if their hostility did not pre-date the bicentennial.
Last week, I accompanied my husband to take his parents out for breakfast to celebrate their birthdays. The following are snippets highlighting the outing. It may read like a badly written sitcom, or a Month Python sketch, but I swear this shit really happened. I’m posting in the interest of public service. This could happen to you…or someone you love.
• Shower, get dressed and leave the house at sunrise. Don’t want to keep the One Eye’s waiting too long. Ole One Eye doesn’t always eat when he should and gets weak and dizzy. Mister Hombre thanks me on three separate occasions for agreeing to go before we arrive at the assisted living facility. I tell him thanks aren’t necessary, and request being rewarded with ice cream later, instead.
• Enter the One Eye’s room. Mrs. One Eye is surprised to see us. She doesn’t remember we are taking her to breakfast, but she was told the previous day. We sit down to exchange pleasantries. Mrs. One Eye is happy to see us for ten seconds…Then she begins complaining she can’t hear Ole One Eye speak. He needs to speak louder. His voice isn’t as loud as it was the previous day, and she can hear everyone in the room speak except for HIM. (This is complete bullshit. She is almost deaf. She wears in-ear aids, that no longer meet her needs. She will not wear the larger models, because they are not stylish and people will see them. She is a vain woman, and thinks people don’t notice she can’t hear. She mostly reads lips, but she won’t make eye contact long enough to get the context. She enjoys not hearing because it insulates her from truth.) Next, she complains about not being allowed to drive. She would take care of more business if only someone would bring her a car. Wisely, Mister Hombre does not acknowledge this and changes the subject.
• Mister Hombre distracts his parents with shiny things. Mrs. One Eye reads her card and gets teary. After gifts are opened, Mister Hombre quickly confiscates the wrappings. If he doesn’t, Mrs. One Eye will save all packaging materials. She is a collector/packrat. She discards very little. It’s common for people who were raised during the depression. Having had so little in the past makes it difficult for them to part with useless things in the present.
• Mister Hombre suggest we leave for breakfast. He gets Mrs. One Eye’s walker (two broken hips and three surgeries in four months). Mister Hombre escorts hit mother and I follow Ole One Eye. You can lose a senior in a straight hallway, if you don’t pay attention. When we get to the vehicle, Mrs. One Eye starts gushing about the new car. She thinks this is the first time she has seen it. She rode in it the previous week. Mister Hombre helps his mother into the car and wrestles with the walker. I lead Ole One Eye to the other passenger door (If I don’t escort him, he will get confused and try to enter the wrong door or even the wrong car. He has no sense no spacial awareness, and gets lost returning from the bathroom….but still he thinks he should drive.) and help him with his seat belt, which he cannot manage.
• Mister Hombre and I belt in and he starts the vehicle. Mrs. One Eye begins complaining because she doesn’t have her purse. Mister Hombre offers to get it. She responds she hardly takes her purse anywhere, because she hardly gets to go anywhere. Mister Hombre asks again if she needs her purse. She can’t hear him. Mister Hombre asks Ole One Eye to repeat the question to her (since they are sitting next to each other). Ole One Eye, instead tells her, “If you want your purse, go back and get it.” (Ole One Eye doesn’t listen and stays in a shitload of trouble because he doesn’t listen to Mrs. One Eye.) Mrs. One Eye unbuckles her seat belt, opens the car door, and gets ready to go without the walker. Mister Hombre gets out, straps her in, and offers once more to get her purse which is hidden in a paper sack in the back of her closet.
• The car ride is relatively uneventful. There are the usual issues regarding hearing, listening and getting lost in translation, but nothing causes tears.
• We form the kindergarten line to usher the seniors into the restaurant. Ole One Eye was confused, and Mrs. One Eye wasn’t using the ramp with her walker. The Hostess takes us to our table, but Ole One Eye doesn’t understand he should follow. Ole One Eye tries to be chivalrous and pulls out a chair for Mrs. One Eye, and tries to help her ease closer to the table. She doesn’t assist by sitting up a little and leaves all her weight resting in the chair, making it much heavier for Ole One Eye to push forward. She snaps at him and says he isn’t doing it right. Dejected and worn out he sits beside her.
• The waitress takes drink orders and returns with coffee for everyone and two extra pots for the table. The seniors complain bitterly, the coffee hot isn’t enough (They make their coffee on the stove and pour into cups while still boiling). The waitress comes to take orders and we wave her off. Everyone reads the menu. The waitress comes a second time and we wave her off again. More complaints about coffee temperature ensue. The waitress comes a third time and hotter coffee is requested. Mister Hombre asks what I’m ordering, and I point it out on the menu (it’s a stuffed french toast thingy with cream cheese and strawberry topping. More like a dessert than a breakfast, but I’m rewarding myself for enduring this). He shows the item to his Mom, and asks if she wants that instead of the plain french toast. She looked at the picture and nodded (She had no idea what she agreed to. She didn’t read the description. I get ready to watch the inevitable train wreck that will occur when the food arrives.). The waitress returns for the fourth time takes orders and goes to get ANOTHER pot of hot coffee.
• After a lengthy wait and more complaining about the coffee, food arrives. Everyone except Mrs. One Eye begins eating. She stares at her plate and says, “I didn’t order THIS”. Mister Hombre tries to explain she did, but she is having NONE of it. Both Ole One Eye and Mister Hombre offer to trade entrées with her, but she won’t, even though Ole One Eye ordered the entrée she thought she was getting. Complaints continue. The men offer AGAIN to trade. Finally I can’t take it anymore and speak up,”She doesn’t want to trade, she only wants to complain.” (This has been her tactic for years. The hearing loss made it easy for her to alienate herself from society. Over time, family began to ignore her too. She knows, if she complains, they will listen….and they do.). For a woman who hated her entrée, she ate all of the stuffed toast and left the topping (Also ironic, she usually eats a doughnut or something sugary for breakfast. Her entrée was the equivalent of a cheese danish covered in strawberries).
• We return to the ALF, and go to their room and visit before going home (because it is rude to drop them off and honk the horn for the caregivers to retrieve them from the porch). After two major hip replacement surgeries in three months, Mrs. One Eye is under movement restrictions. The idea is to avoid motion that could cause the hip to pop out of the socket before it heals. Mister Hombre has been vigilant about correcting her when she moves in ways she should not (bending at the waist, crossing legs, walking without the walker). She leaned over in her chair, bending at the waist, to pick up a tissue on the floor. Mister Hombre immediately chastised her and told her she couldn’t do that. She responded, “Sure, I can.” and did it AGAIN. Mister Hombre brings her a reach extender with a pistol grip, so she can pick things up without bending over. She drops her tissue, leans over to pick it up bending at the waist, and then she takes the reach extender and leans over using it as a pseudo-cane (It is only two feet long and it doesn’t have a stable base) walks to the wastebasket, tosses her tissue, then returns to her chair still using the extender as a cane. Mister Hombre is so flabbergasted, he can’t even speak. Ole One Eye drops a subtle hint and says, “Well we really appreciate you stopping by and taking us to breakfast…” (Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.).
• Not to ignore an opportunity, Mister Hombre and I bid farewells and retreat to the car. He thanks me again for going, and I asked when we are going out for ice cream.
Last week, I sat outside watching a thunderstorm. Tree branches were backlit from lightning flashes illuminating the sky. The percussion from thunder resonated in my chest like a kettle drum, as steady rain drops changed the transparency of my blouse. The violent light show provided the perfect backdrop for the argument.
I was happier listening to the thunder…alone outside, and I feel confident, Mister Hombre was happier lounging on the sofa, playing Risk.
I understand all slights and issues aren’t worth altercations. Pick and choose according to importance, otherwise you lose credibility. Then again, maybe you lose credibility simply by being a kept woman, or simply by being a younger kept woman. I have a relatively high tolerance for crap, and can ignore it for long periods of time, but sooner or later, I become saturated and can’t pretend all prior inconsideration didn’t occur.
My parents taught me to place others needs before my own, and I’m too polite to ask my husband to choose between me and his family. It would never occur to me to place him in the same compromising positions he’s placed me. My hope was, he would choose me when it mattered most. I was wrong. It’s true, the squeaky wheel gets the grease. I believe, he thinks my disappointment is easier to deflect than his family’s, and consequently I’ve become the poster child for concession. Maybe that should illuminate how stingy his family is about doling out approval, but dammit I just feel…hurt.
I’m not angry. The anger blew away with the thunderstorm. Now, I’m quiet; quiet, calm and empty. Words escape me, and purpose extends its middle finger. I’ve retired to the studio (a.k.a. the dining room) so it hasn’t been entirely unproductive (two drawings in three days is ambitious for me).
I know the responsibility to move forward is mine. This post is my opportunity to think out loud and sigh. I don’t want to be hurt. I want to be strong and inspire strength in others. Can anyone tell me how to believe in myself?
This is a gel pen drawing from my days of employment. It has NOTHING to do with this post. Well not much… Don’t take the drawing personally…