clueless in carolina: June 2008

Thursday, June 26, 2008

Great New Advertising Campaign

I couldn't resist passing along this gem from this guy, whose wife is serving in Afghanistan while her husband is taking care of the kids.

Sunday, June 15, 2008

Happy Father's Day, Daddy!!

Dear Daddy, Happy Father's Day. It's hard to believe that you've been gone now for over ten years. You slipped off into eternity on August 1, 1997. I feel you sometimes close to me. I wish my girls could have known you. How they would have loved you! How I would love to see the crinkle in your eyes when they did something cute. How I would have loved to see them sitting in your lap as you patiently explained something to them.

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Think of Bob Newhart, and you have my dad. Painfully shy and quiet, but one or two little words slipped in between the constant, raucous conversation of three loud females and you'd laugh so hard tears would come to your eyes. A talented writer--a man of matchless integrity and honor--a brilliant scholar-a bachelor's, two masters, and a PhD-My Daddy.

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Daddy, I once believed you could do anything. I like to think that you've broken through the steel wall of death and hang around me sometimes.

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"Don't smoke in my truck!" I feel you saying. Not that helpful, okay? Yes, we now have your 1989 Nissan truck. I will keep it on the road as long as I live if possible. Yeah, a former two packer a day who quit FOR ME (I supposedly cried as a tiny child when he smoked around me) I know you hated cigarettes. A reformed smoker is always the worst, right? I know you'd crinkle your eyes into a little grin and agree with me.

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Mom is slipping further into dementia. She now thinks that you are still alive. While I was driving her home from the doctor the other day, she casually asked why Grady had to leave. "Did he have to get back to the office?" "Yeah," I casually replied. "Yeah, he wanted to stay till the end of the appointment, but he had to get back to the office." And then I wiped my eyes.
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Please come and get Mom. Pretty, pretty please. She misses you so. Prove to me that you can do anything. Just one last favor, Daddy!! Indulge the six year old in me who believed that you could leap tall buildings and rescue fair maidens in distress.

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Tell you what. I won't smoke in your truck. I promise pinky-swear.

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Bawling

1963-Mom and me

I'm not a crier. Y'know, I was just musing tonight about some of the high-uh-LOW lights of my life and the few times that I have cried. I didn't cry when Daddy died. First of all, I was pretty much in shock, and secondly, it was, if I may say, so, about a great a way to die as possible. BOOM! Massive, immediate heart attack. No pain. We always said BYE I LUV YOU at the end of every conversation since he was diagnosed with 4 blocked arteries at age 54 (MY HUSBAND IS 55 now! And his EKG is picture-perfecto) so there was no regret that I didn't say goodbye.

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I remember a few times in the past when I did cry. Like the night before the Bar Exam, when I took a practice Multi-State exam (50 questions) and literally got every single one of them wrong. Then I went for a walk and while strolling along contemplating the thought that 3 years of anguish and tuition had been wasted and that I was going to disgrace myself and bring shame to my family, I ran smack into some pieces of wood sticking out from a truck and busted my lip open. Yeah, I cried! p.s. I passed the bar.

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Then there was that time at age 28 when the Big Love O' Mah Life took me to breakfast to tell me whether or not he had decided to marry me or not. Yes, he actually planned AND ANNOUNCED IT TO ME three months in advance. Yes, murder IS illegal, thanks for asking. The answer was no, and I fled New York in hysterics and landed back here in SC. Of course I cried when the other Big Loves busted up with me or me with them, but meh, y'know, after a while it got to be sort of boring. Onward and upward to the next!!

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Didn't cry at the happy times that followed...wedding, babies, etc...I cry when mah babies get an award for being the most spectacular children in the universe, etc. of course, but usually just a brief sniffle.

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Nothing has compared to this. Nothing. Watching my beautiful and brilliant mother turn into an incontinent, vacantly grinning zombie has been the most painful thing...Wait! No! LAST YEAR when I was in constant pain and no doctor could figure it out and I wondered if I was going to have to give up my job and life that I loved with all my heart...yes....that was worse...but I figured it out and of course, being generally lucky all my life, it turned out to be something fixable and not deadly. Sure, it's been an adjustment financially, and sure, I'm still hurting some, but I'm getting better all the time. Very slowly. Still in pain. I have an appointment with a pain doctor on July 9 and I plan to demand some narcotics to get me over the bad days. I expect to be healing up for at least two and probably three and maybe five more years, so no champagne yet, but anyway..

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But Mom has a death sentence. One that has stripped her of her dignity. One that now has her wearing diapers and basically, I could carry on a conversation with my two year old that was far more satisfying to both parties, seeing as how she's progressed downward so fast that most of the time if you ask her a question she simply stares into space.

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So now my sister and I must figure out how to manage her finances, with interest rates dropping faster than interest in gas guzzling vehicles, and in home care costing fourteen thousand dollars a month. We can't afford that. So we are putting her into a lovely nursing home, and I've been taking night shifts with Roger to try and reduce the bills some until she moves in which can't come too fast for me. Sometime in the next few weeks..

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And I'm bawling constantly. Today I just lay in bed, sobbing my heart out. I want Mom to be freed from this terrible prison of pain and humiliation. I want her back in Daddy's arms as fast as possible. I want to stop changing her diapers. I want to stop watching her frantically scratch herself (some medicine is making her itch, but I think we have figured it out).

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I want her to be romping through the streets of Heaven with her man and her parents and her brothers and her sisters and her cats and her dogs. And God won't let that happen. He's going to make this as drawn out as possible. While I go through boxes of Kleenex. While my children watch in terror as I sob.

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p.s. PLEASE don't feel like you have to comment, you sweet lovely people. I know I always feel obligated to comment when someone writes a really sad post, but don't. Just click on an ad if you want to help. It's such a pain to comment with Blogger, although I've tried to make it as easy as possible. Just send a good thought my way if you can...