As a teenager, it was so easy to fall into the role of martyr. Part was a product of youth. You ARE the whole world between the ages of twelve and twenty-two (hell, maybe longer). Part was my disinclination to talk about what troubled me. Ironically, when I found myself with a trusted listener it was much like a having a captivated audience. I misinterpreted a sympathetic ear as friendship built on the foundation of drama, and I would be disinclined to let go of my pain. I was a passive aggressive attention whore. It’s difficult to admit, even ten years later.

Today, I’ve no interest in being a martyr. I’ve managed to climb down from the cross and recycle the wood for better use. When I consider sacrificing another tree for such selfish reasons, I try stepping outside myself to gain a better perspective, before trotting to the garage to fetch the axe.

It’s difficult coping with painful situations when there’s no one to shoulder the accountability. Hurt is more satisfying when there is another person to blame. By pointing to a culprit, you have the RIGHT to proclaim yourself the victim, making sadness easier to accept.

When unfortunate things happen for no accountable reason, some question spiritual beliefs. Surely they are being punished for wronging the gods or sinning against their fellow man. Sometimes life just happens, but we aren’t willing to accept it.

When I got the phone call Monday, it took longer to get my wits about me than I would have liked. Based on past incidents, I programed myself to believe I would only be picking up the pieces from my in-laws after 10 PM. I know, that’s stupid, but so far, it’s the way the year has played out. At three PM I wasn’t emotionally prepared to be the person they needed me to be.

Fortunately, I wasn’t able to walk out the door at that EXACT minute as the ALF (assisted living facility) staff wanted. I took the time to throw my personal effects into a backpack, and faced another delay re-installing the top on my jeep, allowing me plenty of time to mumble obscenities under my breath in private. When I reached the hospital the nearest parking spot was conveniently located in bumfuck egypt. This provided an excellent opportunity to walk off nervous energy and remind myself, “This is not personal. This is situational. They need you with a clear head, not a bad attitude. This is not about you. Think about the big picture. This is the way things are going to be for years to come, you better get used to it now.”

I recognize this is not my pain. My hip is not broken, and my mind is in tact. I am not engaged in the push pull battle of adult child versus aging parent (yet). I am a member of the audience, seated rather uncomfortably in the coliseum, watching the horrors of the Roman circus unfold before my eyes. I offer my support, but it would be deceptive to confiscate their hurt and market it as my own.

I sympathize, but I refuse to mirror the emotional responses of the others. It makes me extremely uncomfortable when people search my eyes for specific emotional responses. They are disappointed by my pragmatism. There are enough martyrs here, and deserving ones (no, I’m not being sarcastic). I’ve spent an obscene amount of time re-hashing this online and regret this won’t be the last post on the matter. I want to make it clear, my role is far easier than my husband’s, his brothers’, and his parents. I regret their pain and offer my support, but imitating their torment won’t take it away.

Most of you know, we’ve hit the tri-fecta of surgeries. I received the call Monday afternoon, which is a huge improvement over the three AM announcement for the previous surgery. She was admitted via doctors orders, bypassing the emergency room wait, alleviating a little of the usual stress.

Whenever Mister Hombre goes to work, there is always the possibility that something like this will happen. I’ve been preparing myself mentally, for a while. I believe Meno coined the phrase “anticipatory grief” which applies appropriately here. Don’t misread my pragmatism as a lack of concern, my goal is to be level-headed, and strong on the family’s behalf. There is enough pain and hurt to go around. I don’t have the power to take it away. I try to focus on the areas I can make a difference.

I have a distinct coping advantage over Mister Hombre and his brothers. These are not my parents and I’m not afraid of defying them (the antagonist in me enjoys it). By the time I married into the family, the good old days had past. They were just a pair of crotchety, bitter, demanding, self-entitled seniors, but I don’t believe they were always that way. Over the years, I’ve seldom seen them happy. Their happiness lies in the glory days of tired stories, satsuma crops, and good food.

Life has thrown them a few curve balls, and their bitterness is understandable, but it does not make them beloved. Mrs One Eye simply cannot control who she has become, holding her accountable is foolish at this stage of her dementia. It is difficult for me to dismiss my past hurts; those I experienced when she was in her right mind. One of my character flaws, is my ability to hold onto hurt longer than necessary. I am not so callous as to be incapable of forgiveness, but forgiving for the same transgression repeatedly….As the saying goes, “Screw me once shame on you, screw me twice, shame on me.”

And now I am left with no closure and no choices in the matter.

Marching on… Remarkably, she has been appreciative the last two times I waited with her. When it’s just the two of us, she been calm and appreciative of the companionship. She’s still confused, but she’s more passive. For now we have a good rapport in her mind. Maybe it’s because I’m a woman. Maybe it’s because I listen more than I speak. Maybe she remembers that I’m not going to take shit off her. Maybe it’s because she thinks I’m someone I’m not. Maybe doesn’t matter. I have no choice but to ride this wave, I don’t know where the surge originated, but I know better than to waste time questioning it. Eventually this too will crest and I will become one of THEM.

Thursday morning’s drama left me sleep deprived. Mr Hombre’s brother suggested that I catch a cat nap in the hospital when Mrs. One Eye was resting semi-peacefully (a.k.a snoring louder than a chain saw). I considered the possibility then quickly concluded I didn’t want to wake up sporting a foley with a catch bag clipped to my waistband. Hey, it happened to her…. Little did I know, Brother jinxed all my future attempts at cat napping. Did you know there is a direct correlation between my eyes closing and the phone ringing? Yes, every time.

Telephones scare me. They are couriers of bad news, drama, wrong numbers, and distant family who’s salutation ability is confined to, “who’s this”. Well crap, you called me. Show a little decorum, identify yourself first, then feel free to ask who I am. Looks like my irritability isn’t camouflaged very well.

The surgery was Friday, and went as expected. Mister Hombre’s youngest brother’s family arrived late afternoon and spent the weekend with us. The house has been bustling with activity for the past three days. It has been a pleasure hosting such pleasant house guests, but my head is full and I’m looking forward to a little down time.

I tried to catch a nap on two separate occasions, Friday. Both attempts were foiled by the beloved Mister Hombre calling with dinner plans and hospital updates. Everyone stayed up well past midnight. At 2 AM, sleep was disrupted by a call from the hospital. Mrs. One Eye kept getting out of bed. Yes, the day of her surgery she was getting out of bed and walking. No, she didn’t know where she was. Mister Hombre went to the hospital and remained with her until morning.

I have not retuned to the hospital. I’m undecided whether I will do so. I feel foolish standing in a room with five or six others who talk over and around the patient, pretending things are normal. Often ignoring the patient until she says something like, “I don’t understand why they don’t provide enough chairs for company,” or “They should really bring some coffee and doughnuts”. Just like the Howard Johnson’s only with transfusions and open backed gowns. Thursday was different. She was alone, in pain, and confused. Okay, maybe it really wasn’t that different…

I intended to post something other than this, but that was before I was awakened by a ringing phone at o’ fuck thirty. At first I thought it was a dream, then I realized it was a telephone, and I eventually concluded it was my telephone. I managed to answer before the answering machine worked it’s magic, but it felt like time was passing in hours not seconds.

I was greeted by a caregiver from the in-laws assisted living facility. Yeah, I know. Here we go again. My mother-in-law fell and fractured her OTHER hip. Two broken hips in less than three months. Yeah. I met everyone at the emergency room at 4 AM. We didn’t get her results until eight. Luckily she was stoned out of her gourd on pain medicine, so she slept a lot.

I went home for a few hours, ate breakfast and changed clothes. I couldn’t unwind enough to catch a power nap. I’m not at my sharpest today and I can tell because Patches stood on the kitchen table nuzzling my cheek for ten minutes before I realized “Oh, shit! You’re not allowed on the table.”

Mrs One Eye (MIL) was admitted and moved to a room. She will have surgery today or tomorrow, but the procedure is not as complex as the full hip replacement she had in March. They will put in a couple of screws to prevent the fracture from gaping. Though less invasive, the recovery is still lengthy.

The caregiver took Ole One Eye (FIL) back to the ALF to shower and get some rest. So here I am back at the hospital sitting with Mrs One Eye. She gets terribly confused, but that is okay because she’s extremely stubborn and she thinks her mind is crystal clear. She sleeping right now so my job is easy. But with a four day stay ahead of her, there will plenty of time for hallucinations and fits of madness…just like the last time. I wish her head wasn’t such a frightening place

Mister Hombre is somewhere over the Atlantic so he won’t know about the fall until he clears customs. His brother (who lives here) had to take care of some business, and he won’t return until later tonight. I called the youngest brother and asked him to pass the word. He just sighed, over and over. I hope someone will relieve me of sentry duty this afternoon. It just isn’t right human for me to abandon her, but I suspect if I were the one on the other side of the bed rail…