Sunday, June 28, 2009
Where to begin? What to leave out? What tone to take? Why don't I just get my shit together and write a F-ing book? One of my most effective excuses is my mother, who is constantly at odds with at least every other person on the planet, having an only twice before documented reaction to a somewhat (very) addictive substance, wrecking her car for the 7th time this fiscal year and taking her harried insurance company to court, breaking her computer and alienating the computer fix-it people by reminding them that doctors such as herself (though she hasn't practised in 15 years because she "voluntarily relinquished" her license) went to school far longer than they and so shouldn't be talked to like she is a child regarding this machine which is clearly faulty (not plugged in). *Big Cleansing Breath*
Ham Sa. Ham Sa.
Did I mention that she still uses the word "Oriental" to describe people? And when I remind her that that is an adjective to be reserved to describe rugs only, she waves her chunky bejeweled hand and says, "Excuse me, Rebecca. I forget how sensitive you've become."
This is where I lean my head back, stare at the ceiling, take breaths worthy of labor and wonder what I did in my previous life to deserve this. AND how did SHE birth ME? She should have given birth to Paris Hilton. I should have been mothered by wolves. They would have been more forgiving.
She's moving here. Not here, here. But within the county limits. And I'm glad. Mostly. When I'm not thinking of myself. Or of ever doing anything else remotely enjoyable. Ever.
You see, my grandfather (her father) is doing his damnedess to die. Her sisters won't let him. She, with her extensive medical knowledge, thinks he should be in hospice. She doesn't have Medical POA despite the fact that she's the oldest child and has a Medical Degree. Doesn't that tell you something? If one of the 3 sisters doesn't step out of the equation, one of them is going to commit homicide.
So. My mother is coming here. And here's the problem.
She can't actually take care of herself. She has every syndrome, disease, and disorder ever outlined by medical geniuses and failures alike. She doesn't adhere to a regular schedule of sleeping, eating, dressing, medicating or paying her bills. And by "regular" I mean normal and also consistent. She needs help. Daily help. And I don't want it to be me.
The good news is that she divorced well, and has more money than most small churches. (You know. Not a First Baptist Church, but she's not a Second Antioch of Baskersville, either.) Anybody have any ideas how to talk a non-Senior Citizen into an Assisted Living facility? Or hiring live-in or 24 hour call-in care?
It's not that I don't want to help her. But I have 4 kids and I'm pretty busy with them and their joyous things. I don't want to get sucked into her insanity and joy-sucking things.
Oh, crap! I'm not saying this well. I'm sounding heartless and cold. I'm sounding like a petulant child, an ingrate, an asshole. She's my mother, after all. But she makes me crazy. She makes all of humanity crazy. She is crazy.