A Reckoning

April 21, 2012

I can see my father now—his mouth twisted tight as a sailor’s knot, punctuating each word with his index finger.

He would be saying, “You can go fuck yourself.  My daughter is laying in the Critical Care Unit and you want me to meet with you about MY BEHAVIOR.  I have done nothing wrong.”

Even though I am my father’s daughter, because I am my father’s daughter, I do not say this when the Social Worker calls me from the hospital to tell me I must meet with them before I can see my Dad.  Because of the tension my very existence and proximity to my father creates.  For his wife.

Before the call I already decided I was not going to go see my Dad again.   Yesterday, before the call, I wrote to you about that.

Either he would get better, or he would not. 

Without me there. 

It is clear to me Dad can not take any conflict in his room. 

It would kill him. 

He needs all his strength for healing.  It will take everything from him and then more.

I break down.  I babble to the social worker.

I am caught off guard with a bottle of Windex in one hand, a paper towel in another, having just sprayed my bathroom mirror. 

The cell phone rang.

Unknown the screen said.

“This is the Social Worker at Tacoma General.  First thing I want you to know is that your dad is ok.” She said. 

It is one thing to decide you are going to do the right thing and do it voluntarily. 

Because you love your dad. 

Because you made promises to him.  Promises you cannot keep.

But to be told, “you cannot see your dad again until you meet with us.”

……………………………………..

My sister Linda has been unfriended too. 

She does not want to go back to the hospital either. 

She wrote this to the family today.

AN OPEN LETTER TO MY FAMILY....
I have been un-friended. Okay. So what I hear you telling me is that you no longer want or need me in your life. Okay. I am not offended by this. I welcome this as if you think that little of me then I no longer need you in mine. Yet it saddens me that the trust, the friendship and the love I felt for someone and I thought they felt for me can be so easily thrown away. It certainly is not the first time someone in my family has turned on me or any one of us. And if any other member of my family wishes to un-friend me after reading what I say here, be my guest. We are a throw away family. We have learned this well. We were taught to turn on each other as a form of survival. My family is toxic. I have heard this phrase repeatedly over the last couple weeks. It is true. My family is toxic.
I am transported back to my childhood where each of my siblings had a role to play. One is the tattler, one is the butt kisser, one the taunter, one is the name caller, one is the protector, one hides in the corner and so on and so on. We learned these parts well to survive and we still are playing them. Information is given according to the role we play. We choose one target and all gather around the mother hen playing her game so we can stay in the nest. Not speaking out for whatever reason we have learned. Well I want to be the shadow and hide from all of this but I am no longer a child. I will no longer be told what to do, what to say or to be silent. I no longer concern myself about pleasing this sister, this brother, that mother, or my father so I can be accepted. Where were any of you when I needed your voice when an injustice was done? Where are we all now when one of our siblings is being treated unfairly? Are we fighting for her voice to be heard? No! Everyone is playing their role.
Many things have been written on facebook over the last couple weeks. We write our feelings. We write our daily activities. We write anything and everything. Sometimes we write things others take offense over. Personalizing every word, every phrase, and every paragraph. Sometimes we write to heal ourselves or to relieve the pain of what we feel is an injustice. Then friends and family comment adding their input based upon statements made by the post, input made based upon one side of the story. And then sides are taken. You get mad because someone else has posted their side of the story. So are you implying that your story is more important than the other’s? Is your version any more real than the other person’s? Are you now ostracizing them and cutting them off from family and/or friendships because they too told their story, their version. We own our stories not to be broken down by anyone. No one has the power to do that. We have the right to speak our mind just as you do.
You say you are stressed. Own your stress. Do not say it is because of this person or that person. Our stress is based upon how we chose to act and react. It is based upon a feeling whether it be an insecurity, an irritation on past experiences or just because we are angry or scared. Do not tell me it is this person’s fault or that person’s fault. Don’t elaborate the story just to get sympathy for yourself. Own your words and your actions. During this time of dad’s recovery, we all want to know what is going on with him. We are all concerned about him getting better. We all spend time with him as we are able according to our schedules. Just because one person is there more than the other, doesn’t mean he is loved any less by anyone of us. Do not accuse, blame or cut off others just because you are feeling angry or scared. We all are feeling the same way but we all express it differently. Dad said this will be a time for us all to pull together for the strength he is going to need. But in this time of need, you have turned on a few of us. You say this time is not about this person or that person, it is about my dad. Then act like it. Don’t make it about you and what makes you mad. Make it about working together for one common goal. That is what my father would have wanted. I respect the fact that you are my dad’s wife. I am happy he has found someone to love as he loves you. I know he is fighting now for life for you. Be secure in that knowledge. We should not be acting out (as what happened yesterday) in his presence. It is not good for him. Differences should be dealt with as adults, person to person, and not with an audience.
My dad is a fighter. This is just one more obstacle in his life which he has to overcome; with the love and assistance of his wife and with the love of his children. What is happening with this family at this time of uncertainty is definitely not right. I will not do what someone else tells me I have to do unless I feel it is the right thing. I will not be silent. Just as my father is your husband, my family is my family. I will not be silent.

…………………………………

I called Linda. 

“You did not put in Trouble Maker.  That was me.”

“No.  You were the protector.” She answers. 

“Great protector I was.”  I tell her.  “I ran away. And left you all in the house with Willa and dad.”

“You did what you could.”  She tells me.

I should have done more. 

But it was all I could do at 16 to save myself. 

………………………………..

And yes the past was the past. 

I think I’ll stick my finger down my throat and make myself puke if I hear that one more time.

Because of my past I have major depression, anxiety disorder, post traumatic stress syndrome.

……………………………….

Because the past is never really the past.  It follows you around collecting dust bunnies in its blanket that have to be shaken out once awhile.

There’s a lot of dust in the air right now.

It settles to the floor, collects in piles.  The air catches it, swirls it around, makes small dust devils that dance unpredictably around the room.

………………………………………

Lisa calls your aunt.  “Mom, what kind of family did you get me into?”

……………………………………….

I want to ask my Dad, “What kind of family did you get me into?”

…………………………………….

One I cannot function in.

………………………………………

“I want to make it clear we aren’t excluding you, but you are on a list of people that is not allowed to visit your dad until we meet with you.  We have to go over the rules and guidelines for appropriate behavior in your father’s room.”

Like I don’t have the sense God gave a granny goat.  I know how to behave in my father’s room.

…………………………………….

The social worker has no idea how many hours I have clocked in hospital rooms.  With you.  My child that died.  Your essence following me into the parking lot of every hospital, every Emergency Room, Waiting Room, Hospital Room.

She has no idea that just a little over a year ago I sat by your Great Grandpa Roger’s bed in a hospice center and read him   poems from Yeats.  My favorite line, “But one man loved the pilgrim soul in me…”

Great Grandpa Roger could not speak.  He could not swallow.  He could only project sheer terror in his eyes until they closed and he breathed peacefully under the influence of regular injections.  He squeezed my hand after I read that Yeats line the seventh time.  A few days later he was dead.

She has no idea that I promised my dad that I would be there to ask questions, to get answers, to advocate on his behalf.

To reassure him everything was going to be ok.

She does not know that in my baby sister’s eyes, I am the protector.  That is my role in the family. 

There has been a hostile takeover. 

The social worker knows nothing about me except what she has been told.

And I must meet with her before I can see my dad again.

Depression, PTSD, anxiety disorder. 

I spray the floor of my shower with Formula 409.  Breathe in the fumes of chlorine.  Yes, I know.  This is harmful to me. 

I try to make the shower floor clean.

Cleanliness is close to Godliness.

I need divine intervention right now.

……………………………………

“Family is important to the patient’s healing process.”  The social worker tells me. 

I am crazy with the craziness of this.

Throw gasoline on a burning match and see what happens.

Is this for real?

Was I dreaming this?

“We don’t want to exclude you.  Here’s my number.  You must meet with us before you will be allowed in to see your dad.  I want to make that very clear.  We are a hospital and we can exclude anyone we perceive to be a threat to a patient’s health.”

“I am staying away for now.”  I tell her.

“Staying away is your choice. You have to meet with us before you can see your dad.”

This is her mantra.

…………………………………….

I am trying to find my breath.

I am trying to find my mantra to get me through this.

Right now the only thing I can hear is my dad’s voice, that voice, the voice that says “Fuck you.”  Through clenched teeth a mouth that does not move, only makes sound.

My dad will get better, or he will not. 

In the meantime, I will wait.

I will not be the tension.  I will not be the conflict. 

I cannot be the protector.

I need to save myself right now. 

I love you. 

Mom.

Letting Go

April 20, 2012

Andrea--I am so glad you are still there to write to. 

That, has to be enough.

Sunday, April 1 my Dad had a heart attack after being in an accident with a hit and run driver. 

My sister Linda and I went to the hospital that afternoon to see him.  To see if there was anything we could do for his wife Mari. 

A heart cath was scheduled for Monday morning. 

My sister Linda and I called in to work to sit with  our Dad's wife.  So that she would not be alone if anything happened.

Always be prepared.

If you can be.

The cardiologist said the procedure would be about an hour.  We could expect to see him in about half an hour or forty five minutes.  If they found a blockage Dad might be in a little longer because they put in a stint.

I watched the door, beginning at the half hour mark. 

An hour later, still no doctor.

An hour and fifteen minutes later the cardiologist came in.  He had a pad of paper, and a young woman in a lab coat with him. 

I could feel in an instant my chest bracing for bad news.

“I wish I had better news.”  The cardiologist sat down next to Mari, took his pad of paper and drew an outline of a heart for her.  I watched over her shoulder.

“Your husband had a major heart attack.  The arteries on the right side are totally blocked.  That side is dead.”

He scribbled ink in the right side of the heart for emphasis.

“And there are three other major arteries.  One is totally blocked.  But it has compensated with other blood vessels and has created a sort of bypass of its own.”  He drew pictures of three arteries on the left side of his hard.  “So we have one vein totally occluded.  The other 2 are about 90% or more closed off.  We have to do heart surgery.” 

I’m watching Mari watch the doctor draw his pictures. 

My brain freezes up.

Negotiating Possibilities it says on its screen.

What possibilities. 

“We also my need to transplant his aortal valve as it is not functioning at peak capacity.”  The Cardiologist adds.

“Any questions?”  He asks.

I have a hundred thousand questions, but I know he does not have all the answers. 

Chances without the surgery. 

He could drop dead from a major heart attack on his way to the door of his hospital room or he could live another 10 years or more with the heart the way it is.

Chances with the surgery.

There is about a 90% chance he’ll survive the surgery.  Later he would explain to my dad that means 90% chance he will survive the first 30 days.  After that…

I am his oldest child. 

He wants my input. 

It is his decision.

We walked into Dad’s hospital room together.  Linda, Mari, me.  Dad was awake.  Mary went to his right side.  He took her hand.  From the foot of the bed I witnessed that moment when my dad confronted his mortality and his wife faced the possibility of losing him.  I saw the tears fill their eyes, run down their cheeks. 

I looked at Linda, she looked at me.  “Let’s go out in the hall.”  She said.

………………………

Twenty days later my Dad whispers to me “I am tired.”

He struggles for breath even with an oxygen mask.

“I know Dad.  You need to rest.”

………………………

Resolution.

I will not get drawn back into this.

…………………………

I say goodbye.

………………………..

Conflict.

I will no longer be a part of it.

………………………..

I kiss my Dad on his cheek.

………………………….

Anger.

On the way home from the hospital I stopped at Safeway, bought a dozen red helium balloons, took them to Frontier Park.  Released them one by one into the sky.

………………………….

Hunger.

I took the basket I had packed for you—the promise of lunch today.  Sitting on a log, I spread the red cloth napkin on my lap.  I cradled the bright porcelain Asian sceened bowl between my thighs.  I opened the thermos full of Ginger Chicken soup, with pieces chopped to the speech therapist’s and nutritionist’s specifications, low sodium everything.  The smell of lemon grass, kefir leaves, lime and coconut milk snaked its way through my nose nesting in my salivary glands. 

I promised you soup.

I promised you I would be there to help Mari.

I promised I would be there for you.

……………………………………

I am cold. 

Thank God it is not raining.

Looking into the lake, all I see now is my reflection.

Listen to birds.

Ducks.

My balloons float overhead.

……………………………………..

I am my father’s oldest daughter.

He was counting on me.

He is counting on me.

……………………………………..

Stronger.

I have to be stronger.  I pour the soup into the bowl cradled between my thighs.  I love to eat soup with the bowl shaped porcelain spoons I bought at Uwajimia. I stir the finely chopped chicken, the minced baby corn cobs, carrots, mushrooms, fill the spoon with that and broth. 

The soup is stove hot.  It burns the roof of my mouth, my tongue.  I wait for it to cool. 

Close my eyes and feel myself breathe.

Release. 

The 12 red balloons have floated away.

Another spoonful of Dad’s soup warms me. 

……………………………………….

I am sorry.

I am not strong enough for this.

                                         ..................................................

I remember you yelling at me the last day I saw you alive  “I am going to die.  I am going to die.  You have to accept that Mom.”

“You can’t die.”  I told you like I was saying “you can’t cross the street without holding my hand” when you were younger.

You looked at me.  

“You won’t die.” I commanded, as if I had control of anything.

“I’m sorry, there was nothing we could do.”  The medic told me.

……………………………….

Eleven days ago, as my Dad lay on the operating table, his chest cut open, I heard you whisper through me, “He will be ok.”

Now I wonder what that means.

He will be ok.

Please explain.

Awaiting your response.

Love, Mom.

Bleeding

April 19, 2012

My fingers bleed words.

Raw nerves are exposed to cold air.  The scab knocked off a healing wound.

I am the wound.

A wound that will not heal.

I have forgiven all who I can. 

Still.

My fingers bleed words.

………………………………..

I have forgiven my dad my childhood.

I never told him that. 

Perhaps I should. 

Over time I have become his daughter again, and he has become my father. 

He’s cooked me breakfast of hash browns, scrambled eggs, bacon, whole wheat toast.

The year before you died, I went with him to a Seahawks game.  Driving to the stadium, he pointed out the parking lot where I was conceived.

After my sister’s son died, one year before you, I came home from the funeral and your step-dad, Dean was drunk.   We fought.  He went outside and slammed the door behind him.  It was 25 degrees and dark.  I went in, put my pajamas on, laid on the couch, pulled a blanket over me and turned on the tv. 

Time passed.

Dean did not come in the house. 

I went outside, following the cloud of my breath searching for him. 

He had passed out in the woodshed and peed all over himself.

I tried to rouse him.  He flailed his arms and fought me.  “Leave me alone.  I’m o.k.”

I called my Dad.

“Dad, Dean is drunk again.  He’s passed out in the wood pile “

“Do you want me to come down and help?” Dad asked.

“No.  That would just embarrass him and piss him off.”

“What do you want to do?” He asked.

“Leave him out there, let him freeze his ass to death.”

“Now Sherry,”  Dad began, “you know you can’t do that.  I had the same dilemma when I came home and found your mother passed out with empty bottles of pills all around her, barely breathing, the five of you running around the house.”

“What did you do?”  I asked him.

“I called her best friend and told her your mom needed help.  She came and got her to the hospital.”

“Well Dad, you asked me what I wanted to do, not what I was going to do.”  I told him.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“I am going out there.  I am going to tell him he has five minutes to get in the house. If he cannot get himself to the house and in the door, there will be bright flashing red lights and sirens.”

“O.K” Dad said.  “But if you need me.  Call me back and I’ll come down.”

“Thanks Dad.  I will.” 

…………………………..

Every time I got a call from you from an emergency room, I called my dad.  He talked to me from the driveway at my house in Rochester until I got to St. Joe’s, Good Sam, St. Pete’s, Evergreen, University of Washington, Swedish, Harborview.  My stepsister, Linda Jean, died of cystic fibrosis.  He knew what your sickness meant to me.  When you died, when I could speak again, he was the first person I called to come be with me.

In the week Dad waited for his heart surgery, we talked about you, my step-sister Linda Jean.  He cried.  I cried.  “Linda Jean was my stepdaughter, but she was a daughter to me, just like you guys.”

I put my hand in his.  He squeezed it.  We sat together with our feelings—mine about you and my stepsister, his about my stepsister and his granddaughter.

…………………………………..

After the hostility this Wednesday before, I limited my exposure to toxicity and the possibility of confrontation.  I was trying to ignore it, rise above it, avoid it.   Focus on my dad, let him rest. 

For two days, I stayed home to re-center myself.  To let the brewed hostility towards me settle down.

“Here comes trouble,” my stepmother used to sing that song as soon as she knew I could hear her from the sidewalk as I approached the house.  She was happiest when she could get as many of siblings and step-siblings to sing along. 

My sisters and brother reverberate with the melody when I walk in the room. 

I am not trouble.  I am the questions that should have been asked.  The answers sought.  Truth pursued.  Justice prevails.  I sit in my nest trying to hatch eggs filled with good intentions, tranquility, peace, love and light—even if it does sound trite. 

I try to project goodness.

And hope that it comes back to me.

Here comes trouble.

I do not understand unkindness.  Though I feel it all around me.

…………………………….

Monday, April 15, I sent my boss an email I needed time off from work in the morning to be at the hospital with my dad. 

“I went to the office and got tomorrow’s files. Rest of my files are still in cabinet.  Dad had open heart surgery last Monday.  Stroke on Wednesday.  There have been days I have gone in and he looks so bad I wonder if I am going to get that call in the night.  He hallucinates.  Last night we were in a fox hole waiting for reinforcements.  He was convinced we had to get out of there because the reinforcements weren’t coming.  He was agitated, pulling at everything, trying to get out of bed.  I waited with him in that imaginary foxhole, telling him that if we were really quiet, maybe we would remain undiscovered, but if he continued to carry on, we’d surely be found.  This morning he knew who I was.  I really need to spend as much time as I can with him.”

…………………………………………..

I stand on the right side of my dad’s bed.  I massage his neck for him.  Feel the vertebrae.  Pull the skin, the muscles gently away from it, release, work my thumbs in circles in the curve where his head meets his neck, push my palms cupped over the round of his shoulder to where it meets the arm and down.  He moves under the pulling, pushing, kneading of my hands on his neck, his shoulders.  He puts his right arm around my back, pulls me into him.  I kiss his left cheek.  I put my mouth to his ear and whisper.  “I love you dad.” 

He turns his head and whispers, “I am scared.”

“You’ll be o.k.”  I tell him.  “I told you this was going to be really hard.”

“I’m scared.” He says again.

“It will be ok Dad.”

“I love you.”  He says.

And I know he does.

……………………………………….

I am afraid of losing him again.

………………………………………

I know there well be lies about me when he gets better.

Here comes Trouble.

………………………………………….

Text message this morning from his wife.

Dales not doing well today.  O2 saturations are down and has not been off the breathing machine since Tuesday.  Doctors are not sure what is going on.  Put him on antiatocs.

I call her to find out what is going on.  Let her know I am planning to be at the hospital early afternoon for a few hours.  My sister, Linda Marie, texted me earlier and wanted to go to the hospital with me. 

I did not tell Linda dad was having problems. 

………………………………………….

After we left the hospital, Linda and I stop at Johnson’s candy where the men are making chocolates upstairs.  The woman behind the counter offers us each a piece of chocolate covered toffee sweetness.  I order six more. 

“Oh My God.”  Linda exclaims.  “I just found something perfect for you.”

“What?”  I ask.

She shows me.  It is a mirror.  At the bottom the phrase…Here Comes Trouble.

“I remember we used to sing that as soon as Willa saw you coming up the sidewalk.  Then after all the craziness lately, this is perfect.  You wouldn’t be offended if I bought this for you, would you.”

“No.”  I answer.  Because I am not.

I am not trouble.

But because I am not trouble, I am.

………………………………….

When Linda and I got up to my dad’s room he recognized us both immediately.

“Hi Sherry.”  He said.  “Where’s your boyfriend?”

“Working.”  I told him.

“Hi Linda.” Dad greeted my sister.

“Hi Dad.” She answered.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” Dad asked.

“At work.”  She answered.

It was time for Dad’s lunch.  A man stood in the corner observing as Mari  fed Dad.  Because of his breathing, there has to be an adjustment to the consistency of his food.  Too many chews take too many breaths.

I ask if I can bring in food for my Dad.  The man tells me yes.  It just cannot be too chewy.

When he left Mari told me the man was not the nutritionist.  The nutritionist had the final say on what my dad had to eat.  At that point she was barely civil to me, went to the back of my dad’s room and began talking on the cell phone. 

I asked my dad “Would you like me to bring you something home cooked?”

“Yes.” He answered.

A nurse came in.  I asked if it were possible to talk to the nutritionist.

From the back of the room, I heard a hostile voice say “Don’t you think you should check with me before you ask to talk to the nutritionist?”

“You’ve been on the phone.” I answered.

I was sitting next to my Dad, holding his hand, he was whispering in my ear, “I’m not doing so good.”

Mari stormed out of the room yelling “Don’t be laying your head on your Dad’s chest.”

Linda, standing in front of me, said, “What was that about?”

My Dad looked stunned.  “It’s o.k. Dad.” I told him squeezing his hand.

“It’s o.k.”

But it is not o.k.

None of this o.k.

The fact none of his children are allowed to talk to his doctors is not o.k.

The fact we get different information from different sources that all conflicts because  of the way information is passed from one person to the other, or not passed, is not o.k.

No matter how much stress Mari is under, the way she is treating me is not o.k.

My dad would want me to know.  He would want me to help. 

I am helpless.

I am Trouble.

Mary feeds my Dad the second tray of unattractive food the dietician brings in. 

“I am the dietician.”  She says as Mari lifts the lid off a plate of instant mashed potatoes covered with yellow gravy and a small dish of chicken covered in white gravy.  There is a clear plastic cup with minced cantaloupe and some other fruit. 

I ask the dietician “Are you the same as the nutritionist?”

“I am.”  She answers.

“I am thinking of bringing some home cooked food for my dad.  Would there be a problem with that?”

“No.”  She answers.  “We are just trying to get him to eat right now.  To get up his strength.”

“If I did bring him something are there restrictions as to sodium, other things?”

I can see Mari is fuming as she is sitting next to my dad.  I stop the conversation with the dietician.  I ask Mari if there is a problem with me talking to the dietician.  She gets up from next to my dad, storms up to me, slaps the top of my arm and says, “Nope.  You just do whatever the fuck you want to do.”

As she storms out she takes all the air in the room with her.  The nurses, the dietician, Linda, me—we all just look at one another. 

My dad sits in his chair, trying to get enough oxygen.

I go sit next to him.  I kiss him on the cheek.

“Do you want me to bring you something to eat tomorrow?”  I ask him.

He shakes his head up and down.  “Yes.” He says. 

“What do you want me to bring you?”  I ask.

“Posole.”  He answers.

“That might be a little tough to eat right now.  How about some Thai soup like I made just before you had surgery?”

“O.k.”  he answers.

“Would breakfast, lunch or dinner be better?”

“Lunch.”  He tells me.

He did not need all this drama in his room this afternoon.  He needs to get well.

I am trouble.

Trouble is me.

………………………………………..

“Oh my God.”  Linda exclaims “Mari has just posted something on Facebook.”  We were just leaving the hospital.

“She’s unfriended me a few days ago. So I won’t be able to read it.” 

“It is to you.”  She says.  “Should I read it?”

“Sure.”  I tell her.

Why can’t you do as you are asked?  You are not in charge…You have not been here all the time, so you know what is best for him…You don’t.  Maybe you should spend more time with him.

My fingers bleed words. 

I am an unscabbed wound, fresh, wet, glistening.

I am the child that cries in the night for a childhood.

I am  a mother without her child.

I am a daughter trying to find a way to help her father.

Who has found a way to her father.

And does not want to lose it.

This is all about my Dad.

This is all about what he wants, what he would have wanted.

What he needs.

Thanks for being there to listen.

Love you Andie--Mom

Another Generation

 

April 12, 2012

“Now you know why your mother, your grandmother, and I have not exposed you much to our family.”  I told this to Alicia.  Her Nana Karen, my sister Karen is with us.  Karen nods her head in affirmation. 

“Exactly.”  She says.

Alicia witnessed the craziness at the hospital with me.

“When your Auntie Sherry was younger, I used to sneak her food upstairs to our bedroom.”  Karen said as she took a couple Fritos and popped them in her mouth. 

The three of us are having lunch in the cafeteria at Tacoma General Hospital. 

Alicia looks at me, then at her Nana Karen.  “Why?” she asked.

“Because Willa would send her to bed without dinner.”

“Really?  But why?”  Alicia wants answers.  To make sense of the non sense. 

“Because she did not fold the clothes fast enough.  Or she did not get a dish perfectly clean.  Or she left a spot on the floor when she mopped it.”

Alicia ponders this.  I see her twelve year old mind trying to put this in the context of her own experiences.  Her Nana and I are telling her things she can find no context for. 

“For real?”  Alicia asks.

“For real.”  Nana Karen tells her.

Alicia looks at me.

“For real.”  I tell her.

………

Toxic.  My family is toxic.

I need a Haz Mat suit.  Googles.  Protective Gear.

I have none.

I face it full on, absorb it—medication is not helping.

In the family waiting room I hear my sister Kathy telling another sister we should not talk to dad. 

I ask her why that is.

“When my husband had a brain injury the ICU nurses said we shouldn’t talk to him because it would keep his brain from healing.”  Kathy’s voice is raising.

“Did Dad’s nurse tell you we could not talk to him?”

Kathy loses it.  Becomes unglued.  “I’m not taking this from you.”  She yells. 

“You need to make sure the information you give about dad is accurate and pertains to his situation.”  I try to tell her.  On the day of Dad’s surgery Kathy called one of the sisters and told her Dad had brain damage based on her observations.  You can only imagine the drama this caused.

Other people start to leave the family waiting area because Kathy is so loud and agitated.

Kathy gets up from her chair, gathers her stuff, still yelling at me, stomping off.  Family gathers around her to calm her. 

I sit alone in my chair wondering what just happened.   Trying to be the voice of reason, I have become the problem.  The trouble maker. 

I keep it to myself how much anxiety I have connected to hospitals.  All those days spent sitting beside your bed.  Hospital food, critical care units, iv poles, nurses, the white board in every room—Today’s Date Is; Your Nurse Is…

And none of my family there with us.  Just you and I. 

“No one ever comes to visit me.”  You sobbed to me one night.

My anxiety medication is not working.  Take two my psychiatrist tells me.  Just do not drive.

I concentrate on Alicia.  My great niece.  A new generation.  Breaking plates, making mosaics, her social studies project, watching movies, making jelly bean cupcakes, telling her how awesome she is and how much I love her.

Life needs to get back to normal.

Whatever normal is.

I hope it is not this.

I keep thinking of my Dad.  In his hospital bed.  Tubes everywhere.  The ventilator breathing for him.  His meals passing through a tube , the iv bags hanging from poles.  The monitors tracing, tracking everything.

The fact I am here, not there.

I can be there if I do not cause trouble.

The condition troubles me.   As if I would.

But everything I say and do now feeds into the perception I am trouble.

“Facts” misstated, misconstrued.  Only deepens the conflict inside me.  In every conflict, does there always have to be a victim, a victor?  Three words—“I am sorry.” Would be enough. 

I have given my apology for whatever my part in this conflict is.  Twice.  At least.

It has not been enough.

Others have taken on my role.  My participation not wanted.  My participation “trouble”.

Without a part in my father’s recovery anymore, I simply wait for word.

And write to you.

I want to help.  I tried to help.

Until my help became a threat, unwanted.

You would understand.  Like me you bristled at inaccuracies, injustices.

At justifications not based on fact.

The latest being I backed my dad’s wife into a corner—

when I got back you intamitaed me pushing me back into the chair and window you invaded my space

“I am sorry.  I am crazy with stress.  I did not mean to hurt you.”

This is all the response I wanted.  Instead this.

I wrote back.

I felt the same way. That I had really been trying to be a friend to you and that all of a sudden you were hostile with me. Just for the record you were standing in the corner when I came to try to make things right with you. You were clearly upset and I felt hostile towards me. You told me to get back as I was invading your personal space…

Actually she was waving her arms moving toward me to push me back.  You are invading my space.

I was trying to make things right.  I was trying to let her know I was not trying to take this all personally.  She did not want to listen to me.  She only wanted to hear what she wanted to hear.

Her anger would not let things be right.

At the end of my message back to her I wrote—

I apologized to you for whatever I might have unwittingly said or done......

I cannot do this anymore.  If she has to be right, she can be.  If she has to justify her actions to everyone else, I guess I can be the bad guy.

In the meantime, I cannot bring myself to go to the hospital.  To subject myself to any more.

I wish I could just let this go.

……..

Alicia and I baked jelly bean cupcakes this morning.  We googled recipes on the internet. 

As I was getting out the beaters, the muffin tins, a measuring cup, a mixing bowl, Alicia asked me, “Is it true Aunt Sherry you ran away from home.”

I am surprised by the question.  How does she know this?

“Yes, Alicia, when I was 16 I ran away from home.”

“Why?”

“Because I needed to stay sane.  Because I was tired of being covered with bruises.”

“Bruises?  How did you get bruises?”

“I got beat with the belt, I had an iron thrown at me, I had a teakettle full of heating water thrown at me, I was pummeled with fists.”

“Why didn’t you hit back?”

“Because I could not,”  I tell her.  “I was a child.  I had no power.”

“What about your teachers?  Didn’t they say something?”

“No.”

“They should have.”  She tells me.

I agree.

“From the time I was younger than you I dreamed of running away.”  I tell Alicia.  “I tried to figure out how I could build a tree house in the woods where no one would find me.  Where I could be safe.”

“When you ran away, where did you go?”

“I went to Remann Hall.”  I am parsing out information a little at a time.  This is a lot of information.

“What is Remann Hall.”  Alicia asks.

“It was a jail for bad kids.  I ran away to jail.”

“And then what?”  She asks.

“And then I lived in a Catholic Children’s Home , and later, a foster home.”

Alicia studies me. 

What I have told her does not fit into her realm of experience.  This is all tell her now. 

Which is more than I told you.  I was not far enough away from it then.     

I feel like this is running away again.  Like I am an outsider in my family.  Like I do not fit in.

The sun is shining.  Cupcakes are baked.  Alicia and I need to finish her mosaic.  I have a garden that needs clean up, preparation.

I need a  place I can breathe in something other than the craziness around me.

Whisper to my dad that I am there with him, just not physically.

Can you do that?

I miss you terribly right now.

Love you—mom.