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As The Stomach Turns…

Previously on awesomesauciness….

My devoted reader was subjected to my whining over my mother’s verbal abuse.  Yay for mother-fecking-hood, amiright?

That’s where our story resumes…

The next day Mom called and after trying to claim she didn’t remember even talking to me the night before, and me calling shenanigans on her, she apologized.

So, we’re good there. For now.

My stepfather is now home from the hospital and on hospice care for dementia and congestive heart failure.  I tried to warn my mother that it would be near-impossible for her (no spring chicken herself) to attend to his physical needs at home and much as I detest nursing homes, well sometimes that’s what you have to do.

Less than 24 hours after he got home, Mom called 9-1-1 again.  This time it was because Dad had gotten out of bed in the middle of the night and proceeded to wander about the house before curling up on the floor in the fetal position refusing to move. Mom got the paramedics to get him up and into bed.

One day home, one night with little sleep for Mom.

Guess who she called the next evening?  Me.  To tell me how “hard this is”, and how “tiring it all is” even though she refuses to allow nurses or attendants at the house in the evening.

Guess why.  No, just guess.

Okay, you’ll never guess because you don’t know her.

But I do.

She starts hittin’ the bottle about 4:00 p.m., and no nurse, aide, or attendant will stand for that kind of behavior.

I just don’t have anything to offer her at this point.  He’s dying, but in the meantime he’s living and he needs way more care than she can provide.

And, my give-a-damn, while not busted, is seriously bent.

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This Deep Well

There’s a deep well inside me and from it springs my skewed outlook on pretty much everything.

It’s not a bottomless well, and sometimes the rope to the bucket breaks and I can’t bring up anything at all.

Other times, there’s so much in the bucket I have to force myself to relax, slow down and organize things into something that may entertain a few of you.

By far, the greatest contributor to my well is my life experiences. 

Good, bad and indifferent.

I have to say, though, that the bad experiences seem to provide me with the best source material.  Humor is a great buffering agent.

To that end, I present Daddy.

He has Alzheimer’s.

It’s not pretty.

But, sometimes it’s damned funny.  Especially since he has really lost the ability to communicate verbally.  Oh sure, his sentence may start out with “Today, we had…” but  most of the time it ends with “….verbloggle fish toasted narfles” leaving me to wonder if he had fish, toast, narfles or verbloggle for lunch.

Like I said, it’s funny sometimes.

Other times, not so much.

He’s in a secured unit in a nursing home, since he’s given to walkabouts that may, or may not, include clothing, shoes, money or any idea who he is or where he is going.

I go vist him every chance I get, and he seems to understand we are connected somehow.

He’s just not sure how.

I visited him the other day, and most of what he said made no sense whatsoever.

Except when I got ready to leave.

I sat across from him and took both of  his hands in mine.

“I have to go now, Daddy.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, but I will be back soon.”

“Where you goin’?”

“Well, back to work and then home.”

“When are you coming back?”

“Soon, Daddy, soon.”

I leaned in and hugged him.

“I love you, Daddy.”

“I love you too, baby.”

Tears well, heart breaks and I leave as quickly as I can.

It’s the moments of clarity that steal a little of my soul.