tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-180066712024-03-18T08:43:42.530-04:00Barely Keeping UpJesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403475696508024356noreply@blogger.comBlogger565125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18006671.post-52200587941153177022024-03-14T14:07:00.003-04:002024-03-14T14:07:12.933-04:00Yeah.... Um, no. <p> Remember when I said that I was handling it? That my routine was fucked today and I just had to pivot? Well, that couch ain't getting up this twisted staircase no matter what. </p><p>Kacy is down with a bad migraine and an anxiety situation right now. I was doing pretty good this morning, handling what I needed to handle, talking to who I needed to talk to, doing the email and work thing and helping out my Dad with his tax stuff, even though I've already sent his account almost everything. With Kacy not feeling good, I got her settled as best I could after some cuddles and came back into the kitchen to see if my Dad was hungry. It was lunchtime and I figured he'd want to eat something. He then proceeds to tell me that the stuff that I've copied for his accountant (because I don't trust that this guy got everything - the dude is old and a boomer and apparently doesn't do technology well - so goes small town Kentucky) and I wanted to send copies of everything that we have overnight to him. </p><p>I had started putting together a packet, and as I'm coming back into the kitchen, there's my dad with the packet open, going through everything, getting more confused by the moment, even though I specifically pulled out the figures that he needed. My brain wanted to scream. I have had anything to eat myself today, except for the pudding cup I take my meds in, and that was at 8:30 this morning. It is now 2pm and my Dad has had his lunch, but I have cleaned the kitchen, cleaned up and reorganized the mess he made of the packet that I was sending to his accountant, and I still have to deal with my own clients (that I'm waiting for phone calls back from). Everything that I need to do keeps getting interrupted and I feel like I'm on the verge of a break - something that I can't deal with today. </p><p>I need to stop. I need to stop and take a minute. I feel like I can't stop and take a minute, but I make myself. I take a minute, I write this blog, I attempt to crack my neck (the tension in my shoulders and neck is ridiculous). I add stuff to my list that I cannot forget to do, but I feel like I'm done today. My logical brain is telling me that I should listen to that. The side of my brain that is filled with childhood trauma and very real adult worries about money, work, the state of the world, etc., tells me "No, fucker, you keep going." </p><p>I don't want to keep going today. I want to go put my jammies on, order a pizza and descend into the world of binge watching some trash tv. </p><p>I've decided I don't like today. </p>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403475696508024356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18006671.post-19604969150874633632024-03-14T10:18:00.005-04:002024-03-14T10:18:57.959-04:00Sublety, thy name is not Jess.<p> There are some days when I cannot pivot as well as I would like. There are some days when interruptions can make me go off the rails and I will, for lack of better term, have a tantrum. Turns out there is a reason that I like my routine and if it is not followed, I will go "off the rails" in varying degrees. I always pegged it as OCD - I must do this at this time, I must do that and that time, so on and so forth. OCD may be a nice way to put it, but its actually the part of me that's on the autistic spectrum. </p><p>This is one thing that my Mom had going for me. She always had me on a very regimented schedule when I was a kid. I had a schedule for everything. When we moved to the suburbs in Northern Indiana, my Dad wasn't there to run the schedule that my Mom had set forth for me. No wonder she thought I was running wild those first couple of years post divorce! I was no longer on a schedule and as much as she had everything scheduled in her agenda, it had always been my Dad that ran me from activity to activity. </p><p>Over the course of my life, I have had many routines and they have changed over time. Currently, my morning routine is alarm goes off, look at memories on facebook (seeing pics of my kiddos and me and Kacy first thing in the morning always makes me smile). After that, I get up and take a shower. Then, I get dressed, put product in my hair and let that soak in while I do my makeup. After the makeup is done, I do my hair. There are some days that I skip the make up thing (depending on whether or not I am feeling "lazy" or not) and go straight for the hair, pulling it back into a clip or hair band. That part, I seem to have no problem pivoting in. It's the next part that I cannot have any interruptions for. </p><p>Once I come into the kitchen, I generally do not want anyone to talk to me until after I've taken my meds and scrolled my social feeds for at least half an hour. This is my wake up time. I'm watching Business Cats, waking up and woe to anyone that interrupts that. </p><p>Unfortunately, having Dad here, my routine gets interrupted quite a bit. There are some days I can take it like a champ, there are others when I am internally cringing, my anxiety is high and I want everyone around me to just go away and let me crawl into a little ball. Recently, I discovered that if I feel that way, the best cure is for me to escape to my office. I love going to my office. It's a nice escape and I occasionally, it helps fill up my social cup which has been woefully low lately. Everyone in the house gets a break from me too, because I am not subtle when I'm not happy. Between the scowl on my face to the occasional stomping around in the same way I have done since I was a toddler to the bad off key singing of "I don't wanna do the work today." I can be a drama queen of epic proportions. And if I have to take an adderall because something absolutely requires my focus (which, we haven't been taking on a regular basis simply due to the fact that it makes my blood pressure go high, which leads to headaches, which leads to me being more irritated, which leads to more outbursts - something I absolutely hate) and I get interrupted or thrown off whatever task I may be laser focused on at the moment? Yeah, I hate to admit it, but a nice Jess that does not make. </p><p>Today, I am trying very hard not to be irritated. I am trying to practice understanding. I am trying to humor my Dad and be helpful rather than be irritated that I'm not doing what my brain wants me to be doing. And, if I am being completely honest, I really don't like interfacing with my Dad on days like this. Days like today remind me of what's coming and what I don't want to face - a world without my Dad in it. </p><p>I look at my Dad on days like today and I feel a combination of incredibly sad and incredibly angry. While I know that he has been going downhill for a while and I've made mention of him going down hill for years now, I have not interfaced with it on a daily basis as I have since mid-August. I have always thought my Dad was this amazing person - incredibly smart, knowledgeable about so many things. I remember him calling me with a loud engine sputtering in the background - he had just unseized a tractor motor on a Farmall Tractor he had been in the process of restoring. He had done this by sheer, brute force! He had taken a sledge hammer and hammered on the damn thing until it started turning. I remembered being incredibly impressed and to this day Kacy and I still tell that story fondly (we probably always will). Looking back, he probably did this about 15 years ago. Hell, just back in June he drove from Kentucky to Florida by himself. This isn't something he could do now, nor would I feel comfortable letting him drive to the diner that he loves so much and that's less than 10 miles away. </p><p>It makes me sad and angry. Sad because I know he wants to do these things. Sad because I have to tell him no. Sad because I have to reign in the boyish mischief that he still very much has. Sad because he can't do a lot of the stuff that I know he wants to do. At the same time I'm angry that he can't do the stuff he used to do. I'm angry that he can't remember to take his own medications and I have to make sure he does. Angry because someone always has to be close by in case he falls again and this time it's worse than the last. At this point things are always getting worse. </p><p>One day we are celebrating the fact that he can eat a hamburger from a fast food place after a month of being on anti-nausea meds and the next I'm hovering again - worried because he's back on the oxygen at night, stumbling over his own feet, locking himself out of his computer countless times... </p><p>I am angry at myself because I want this to be over and done with. I want my life to go back to "normal." I am tired of fighting him and explaining to him and reexplaining to him that he can't do things that he used to. He's angry at me because I have to explain things over and over. He's angry that he can't do what he wants to do and he knows he's getting worse. We have a few days, maybe a week where things are good, and then there is the downward slide that invariably leads me to want to hide in my room, under the covers. </p><p>When I was a kid, I would be made to feel bad or teased for having tantrums. My dad would call it my "grumpy" time. He asked Kacy the other day if I still have hissy fits. I answered "Yes, Dad, I still have hissy fits and I'm also a control freak." I went right back to doing what I was doing, scowling at him, while throwing cutlery into the sink to be washed later. Kacy came up and hugged me. I'm letting her do that more. I'm letting her calm me down more. She is so much better at the caring thing than I am. I don't want to interface with it because I don't want to admit what's coming. I'm angry that my Dad isn't immortal. I'm angry that I'm interfacing with yet another parents coming demise. I'm also scared because I know one morning I'm going to wake up and he's going to be gone. </p><p>I hate where my mind currently is and there's nothing I can really do about it. I have become resigned to the fact that this is the new normal. I don't like it, I don't easily accept it. It just is and I hate it. I know it's temporary though. I don't like what is coming next, but I know that is why I have a routine. The trick will be to balance grief and all the other hard feelings that come along the way with the routine and pushing forward. Will there be days when I'm completely down? Yes. I will take those days and I will hide away. I will trust my body to do what it needs to in order to keep me moving forward. I will embrace the sadness, anger, hatred, the feeling of missing my Dad and I will take a day, a week, or even a month if I need to. </p><p>I know that I'll bounce back eventually. I will keep moving forward and growing. That's all I can do. I trust my tribe to help me and I'm not afraid to ask for help anymore either. </p>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403475696508024356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18006671.post-30370385965945423912024-02-21T10:02:00.001-05:002024-02-21T10:02:11.296-05:00A Very Niche Post<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9SDQb2mL7ol4SF64xUKZtqQu3lYA-zCZdtWlD4zd-uRBeB568DZYZszn-oaXYtn00TnHaQp4cqOUwNPC9IHdlO7xKbI4nOvRcSygZETofl-9o0b7Is9H9eTRO1JPuDBXGuMR9wVkRiowU0IMcRT1L0hqPs3ZDyrPI53CE3aNkIH5uH5vZHQjP/s1080/Untitled%20design%20(1).png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9SDQb2mL7ol4SF64xUKZtqQu3lYA-zCZdtWlD4zd-uRBeB568DZYZszn-oaXYtn00TnHaQp4cqOUwNPC9IHdlO7xKbI4nOvRcSygZETofl-9o0b7Is9H9eTRO1JPuDBXGuMR9wVkRiowU0IMcRT1L0hqPs3ZDyrPI53CE3aNkIH5uH5vZHQjP/s320/Untitled%20design%20(1).png" width="320" /></a></div><br />At Ikea, they have all sorts of bookshelves. They have the Billy bookshelf, the Hemnes, and a bunch of other Swedish names that my son has made into countless puns - I'm so proud. Out of the variety of bookshelves that Ikea offers, my personal fav is the Kallax. I cannot express how much I love these things. We have several around the house - a giant one where we put boardgames, four smaller ones in various rooms that we actually use as bookshelves, and also for DOOM boxes and office supply storage. Love it, love it, love it. It's so versatile! <p></p><div>About 10 years ago, when my Mom was still with us and doing her own OCD estate planning thing (which I am extremely grateful for), she called me and demanded that I absolutely must come over to her house and that we were going to go see where she wanted to be buried. </div><div><br /></div><div>You're probably asking yourself what the heck does a bookshelf have to do with estate planning. I promise I'll get there. Now, where was I?</div><div><br /></div><div>My Mom, bless her heart, was a planner. Things had to be done her way or you would be in serious trouble. If I cleaned my room and there was the tiniest piece of fuzz on the floor, she wouldn't use a chancla. She was old school. She'd just smack me upside the head. OR, if I was <i>really </i>"bad" she would grab the hair at the nape of my neck - you know, those short little wispy baby hairs? Yeah, she'd grab those and pull until she thought I was back in line (which, seriously, I know I was undiagnosed Autistic ADHD, but still - I was on academic teams and a well-rounded nerd. I was an angel compared to quite a few other kids.). </div><div><br /></div><div>So, here I am, she's telling me that she wants to take me to where she wants to be buried and my first thought is a fight or flight reaction. Do I really want to go with this woman to see her final resting place? Is this a trap? Let me remind you that she is TELLING me that I'm going. My presence has been demanded. No ands, ifs, or buts about it. My anxiety (which I didn't know that I had at the time) spikes and I'm thinking "Are we going because she wants me to go first?" </div><div><br /></div><div>Insert Admiral Ackbar floating into my thoughts. </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghj9z3bz2yWYp6YW48ewt0vIwVFwBKqWw8703hNUktC0fXsbq_znF4VPrf_uarvz3dRYVkElQFHabvNAgYsu7vrJHb91ajxLkdWCilDysFL2Fx2lxHFHIucWA3dLe07HrwPh2F5E_1plN4a0qbcHuMQaSh_fuOnAiP5ZmeehbhWgE7Z0vjhSQ6/s722/ackbar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="493" data-original-width="722" height="137" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghj9z3bz2yWYp6YW48ewt0vIwVFwBKqWw8703hNUktC0fXsbq_znF4VPrf_uarvz3dRYVkElQFHabvNAgYsu7vrJHb91ajxLkdWCilDysFL2Fx2lxHFHIucWA3dLe07HrwPh2F5E_1plN4a0qbcHuMQaSh_fuOnAiP5ZmeehbhWgE7Z0vjhSQ6/w200-h137/ackbar.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /></div><div>Nope, I am not going to show this woman any fear. I open my mouth and say... </div><div><br /></div><div>"Ya know, Mom, I'm kinda busy and today is not really gonna work for me...."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Jessica," (which actually sounded more like Yes-see-cah because she had an accent because she was from Panama) she cuts me off. "You will be here in an hour. I will take you to lunch afterwards."</div><div><br /></div><div>I am suddenly petrified. </div><div><br /></div><div>"You need to see my niche," she said matter-of-factly. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>What the fuck is a niche?</i> My mind scrambles. I'm not going to ask her what she is talking about, I'm going to try and infer from context and decide it's better for my mental well being if I just go along with whatever she has planned. I shall not be incurring her wrath today. "Okay, Mom. I'll be over in a few." I'm thinking worst case scenario I get a free lunch out and about and I'll see this niche thing she's talking about.</div><div><br /></div><div>A short while later, my Mom is driving us up the main road that leads toward the mall and I instantly know where she's going. She was headed for what I liked to call the "bougie" cemetary. This cemetary is more like a park. There are no real headstones, there are a few plaques, a few above ground crypts and a couple of mausoleums. The grounds are mediculously cared for and far nicer than any golf course I've ever seen. It makes absolute sense that my mom would choose to be buried at the bougie cemetary. </div><div><br /></div><div>We get to the office and are greeted in the most gentle and some what pitying way possible. The guy's "hello," and follow up "how can I help you today" came out with undertones of "someone you care about must have just died and we're so sorry for your loss." It was followed by a grim smile - you know the kind where you just slightly turn the corners of your mouth up, but your lips are firmly pressed together in a line. </div><div><br /></div><div>"I want to show my daughter my niche and I want her to see my urn. Is it in yet?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Wait, what? Urn? No one said anything about an urn. I heard niche but there was no talk of an urn. It wasn't necessarily a surprise, because like I said, my Mom was known for planning everything out. It made sense in my brain that she already had an urn picked out, but already ordered?! I felt ambushed into possibly having to have a conversation with her that I was not prepared for. </div><div><br /></div><div>The cemetary guy, still being somewhat creepy, gets a little too excited and ushers us into an office where we sit down and he gets on his computer. I'm looking around the room and see picttures of caskets, samples of coffin linings, a map of the "memorial gardens," a list of services that include pet creamation that has their own special little area with a small park (pet friendly!) fountain. I had to admit, I was kind of impressed and definitely "bougie." I'm just keeping in my head as my Mom talks to the guy and he pulls out her "contract" to see what stuff she had and he starts talking about "ah, yes, the niche, blah blah blah." He goes on and tells her, rather proudly, that it's in their newly expanded section of the main chapel, a great location, and the urn is already placed inside of it so we will be able to get a picture of how things will potentially look in the niche. </div><div><br /></div><div>Color me confused. I look at the contract that they had pulled out of this giant filing cabinet and it was in that moment that I fully understood that my Mom had pre-planned her whole funeral. Right down to the music (which she asked me to make a CD of the specific songs for her to take to the funeral home in preparation of the "big day."). She spent $4000 to be creamated, put in an urn which would be placed in a niche. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Jessica!" My mom says excitedly. "My urn is pink!" She says it with such glee! I honestly don't think I had ever heard her say anything with that excited of a tone. It was a combination of childlike excitement and mischief. </div><div><br /></div><div>The guy gets up and tells us that we can follow him to the main chapel to see the niche and we walk out to the car. I'm super quiet and probably overstimulated and my Mom has the biggest grin on her face. The drive to the main chapel was less than a minute, but during that time she started telling me about the pink urn she picked out, how she loves it and, it's so beautiful. I can only sit there quietly with what was probably a very confused or concerned look on my face. </div><div><br /></div><div>We parked the car and walked into the chapel and I'm even more confused when the manager walks us over to the back where the walls were lined with Kallax-style shelving, each with a glass window covering it so you couldn't just reach in, take an urn and walk away. Some of the shelves have urns and pictures and there were even flowers from a recent funeral next to one. The guy stops in front of one of the cubbies. This particular cubby has a salmon-pink urn with some flowers on it. This pink urn looked so much like something that my Mom would just have lying around her house with nick-nacks or maybe even some candy stuffed inside it. I'm standing there, my brain screaming at me to behave, stay solemn, and have some respect for the moment, but my as-yet undiagnosed AuDHD brain says nope!</div><div><br /></div><div>We have finally figured out what a "niche" is and I promptly said "You paid $4000 for a bookshelf? It's a bookshelf. You bought a death bookshelf." I wanted to call it a cubby hole, but my brain blanked in the moment and death bookshelf was the first thing that came to mind. </div><div><br /></div><div>The guy looked slightly horrified. My mom kind of smacked me gently on the arm and proceeded to do the whole "Ay Yes-see-kah!" thing to me. "They're called niches," she says to me. And then she started laughing. Hard. The manager excused himself and my mom managed to get the words thank you out in between the giggles. </div><div><br /></div><div>Because humor lets me cope with difficult things, I didn't let up on harassing her about buying and choosing her final resting place to be a glorified "death bookshelf." I couldn't not laugh at the situation and my mom, once it clicked in her head at the absurdity of it all, wouldn't stop laughing. After a brief stop at the restroom, we got in the car and drove to my Mom's favorite Mexican restaurant and had lunch. I got death bookshelf tacos. It was awesome. </div><div><br /></div><div>So there you have it, a niche, you can tell your friends, is a death bookshelf. </div>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403475696508024356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18006671.post-83536131435540369482024-02-19T14:40:00.007-05:002024-02-19T14:40:55.344-05:00Very Big Feelings<p> Since Thursday we have been on an emotional roller coaster. </p><p>Things started out with a bang when the cardiologist announced that there are only 2 surgeons in the area that MIGHT do the surgery. I already knew the odds weren't good - between my Dad's age and other afflictions. But when the cardiologist told us there were only 2 surgeons in the area that MIGHT do the surgery and even then they may say no? He would need two bypass grafts, possibly 3, and the surgeon would probably put in a stint in one of the arteries as well. The risk to my Dad is very high and he was very honest that my Dad may not wake up from the surgery and just pass on the table. </p><p>The other option that the doctor suggested is that we keep going as we are, keep taking the medications, add a cholesterol medication to control the blockage, and ensure that it doesn't get worse. My Dad didn't like the idea of adding more medication to his current daily regimen of 14 pills. There is a third option that we've talked about and that is to just stop taking all the medication altogether and let the cards fall where they may. In that particular case, that's when I would have hospice come in and help. </p><p>My Dad waffles between complete and total denial - ostrich head in the sand behavior, to "if I just walk more without my walker," or "if I exercise more, I'll get better." This afternoon, we were sitting down at the table, and he talked about just letting things go and how he's going to get better, he's going to be able to drive again, get on a tractor and plow a field, build a fence, etc. We had to once again explain, as we have done so several times over the past few days, that what he wants is not going to happen. He's not going to get better. He's going to get worse and worse until one day he just won't wake up. </p><p>This fucking sucks. </p><p>Kacy and I hit the milestone of having been married for 20 years. Originally, we had planned to go to Galaxy's Edge. We had plans, or rather dreams, of pretending to be rebel scum and "playing." Neither of us have been up for celebrating, so we stayed home making the promise that we would go out and do something just the two of us when we're up for it. I don't know when that will be, though. Between my Dad, and the political climate of hate towards LGBTQ people, especially trans people, finding joy - even in the day-to-day, has been really hard. <br /></p><p>There are some days when I just don't want to function or I can't function. Some days are enormously hard for Kacy as well. There are a lot of times when I feel completely inadequate and can't provide her with the same support she gives me on so many levels. She reminds me that I do just as much as her and for her as well. She's just as upset about my Dad as I am. I've been watching as their relationship develops and I'm so grateful for everything Kacy does for my Dad. While I mother-hen my Dad to death, Kacy encourages him and keeps the mood elevated when it starts to go down. At the same time, Kacy's way of communicating with him and getting things through to him is so incredibly gentle. I almost think she'd be a great nurse if she didn't have such a horrible aversion to blood. </p><p>So, yeah, that's where we are. Processing very big feelings. We are nowhere near done yet and I don't know if we will get to the end of processing them. We just keep moving forward. We keep moving towards what we know is coming. We're not exactly happy about it, but there's not a whole heck of a lot we can do otherwise. </p><p><br /></p>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403475696508024356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18006671.post-72878035606528334502024-02-19T09:38:00.000-05:002024-02-19T09:38:18.157-05:00Waking Up<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjICuKEVAnBbLZ101Fj7iQUESDxfleIfWWJOzHvW82Etrl8GuaMeFNhb9FSSwEA_TQZZXofUizfHWZMar0TeU9e5yZKLJoS1Iko-0IRqpg1aw24y55n6FFZHCXotxhgwMNKL-ctYt65uwh0DGoVCBlxfl3hQGjR_T1QJhTRCz31JWLaBemB72zQ/s1080/Untitled%20design.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjICuKEVAnBbLZ101Fj7iQUESDxfleIfWWJOzHvW82Etrl8GuaMeFNhb9FSSwEA_TQZZXofUizfHWZMar0TeU9e5yZKLJoS1Iko-0IRqpg1aw24y55n6FFZHCXotxhgwMNKL-ctYt65uwh0DGoVCBlxfl3hQGjR_T1QJhTRCz31JWLaBemB72zQ/s320/Untitled%20design.png" width="320" /></a></div><i>Author's note: The following was written at 2:39am on February 14, 2024.</i><p></p><p>Awake suddenly. This time it's because my brain decided to very suddenly remind me about how I have to have this conversation with my Dad about what-ifs. At the same time, the snake dream is back. </p><p>It hits me as I walk back from the bathroom that I'm the snake this time. </p><p>It slithers through my dreams, but I am just able to catch glimpses of it. I know where it started- it started this afternoon when Dad and I got home from the consultation about him getting off Eliquis and going on Warfarin because the insurance didn't want to cover the Eliquis. I was mad at Kacy, or so I thought at the time, so I did a chore that she had not been able to get to due to no fault of her own. My brain was like "Kill her with kindness." My anger was not at Kacy - it was stupid and misplaced. </p><p>I was clearing out a stack of cardboard boxes from various sources - Ikea, pizza boxes, and stuff for the casita. I wanted to get them in the construction dumpster while we still have it and I started thinking about snakes. I had been scared by one recently as it skittered from under a pile of 2x4s and headed under the dumpster. I knew they lurked around there and my Dad had recently seen one slithering across the driveway. I was worried that I was going to pick up some of the cardboard and I would find one. I have watched one too many television shows where someone moves a pile of trash or debris to find a snake lying in wait, striking suddenly. This time I'm the snake. I'm the one that is striking out. I'm the one that will ultimately inject the venom - the venom in this case being the truth. </p><p>My Dad's follow-up appointment with the cardiologist is on Thursday. One more day. I can wait one more day before I have the shitty conversation about what-ifs. I <i>had</i> decided to begin that conversation at the doctor's office. I wanted to let my 'tism shine and do its thing and very bluntly ask the doctor to stop blowing rainbows up my Dad's ass and just tell him the truth. Stop billing the insurance company for shit that's just going to prolong what will be the inevitable - which I'm hoping won't be painful. My anxiety won't let me wait. The anxiety is my snake - it demands attention. Strike now! Oh, what? You don't want to? Okay! So, you get to have a panic attack instead!</p><p>I honestly don't think I've had an anxiety attack this bad since I came out to my Dad about Kacy being trans. Back then, I was so scared of disappointing him. I was scared of him disappearing from our lives or being hateful towards the person that I love. I was scared that I would no longer be accepted by my family, judged because I was living a certain way, and possibly dismissed the same way that Kacy's family has ultimately done. Kacy had such a horrible experience coming out and I, perhaps naively, expected better of them. My conversation with my Dad about Kacy being trans, went in the complete opposite direction than it had with Kacy's.</p><p>While there was a lot of crying on my part, my Dad soothed me. He told me it was okay and even laughed it off, telling me that he had already been "transed" in the bathroom at the college already. He explained that he ran into a young man in the bathroom who was transitioning (FTM) and the young man had asked him if my Dad minded that he was in the bathroom. Recounting the story, he said that he chuckled saying not only did he tell the young man that he was free to live his life however he deemed fit but that he should use whichever bathroom he felt comfortable in. </p><p>My Dad continued to tell me that he loved me and by extension Kacy and that the two of us have something very special that he may not understand but that didn't matter because he did understand that we love each other very much and supported us no matter what. I think it's important to say that my Dad has not once said anything bad about Kacy and even passes on compliments regularly. </p><p>One thing, though, whenever I or Kacy try and explain why we are worried about what is going on in the world, especially here in Florida where we live, he doesn't quite understand why we are worried. He normally ends the conversation, grumpily saying something to the effect of "it's nobodies damn business but your own," He's right. </p><p>My biggest problem now is that I am faced with the very real fact that I have to break his already failing heart. My stupid, anxiety-ridden brain is telling me to rip the bandaid and just talk to him already. I need to communicate and tell him exactly what is happening to him. I have to tell him that even though I love him and would do anything that I could to help him, that his heart is just giving out and that the odds do not look good at all. </p><p>This is hard. No, scratch that - this is excrutiating. I have always been a pure optimist. I have always gone for the win-win scenario. I always have plan A, B, C, D all the way to the end of the alphabet. The whole "be prepared" motto that was drilled into my head as a kid? I already have what I call a "DOA File" with a list of things that need to be done when he does pass. I still very much want to believe that we will walk into one of these many doctor appointments and the doctor will magically say "Wha-la! You're cured! No more blood clots, no more heart failure! Your heart has regenerated and you're going to live to the ripe old age of 102, eventually dying in your sleep."</p><p>Unfortunately, we don't live in that world. Talking with the various nurses and doctors when he was having his procedure - their grim expressions when he came out, coupled with the overly animated way they interacted with him, especially when I was around... The nurse at the appointment only today [Feb13th]- the look on her face was just another in a long line of non-verbal confirmations. The odds that he survives a year are less than 35%. We've been dealing with this since August. The autistic part of my brain that deals with numbers tells me that we've been dealing with this for nearly 7 months...</p><p>I know it's only February, but everyone knows as an adult, time doesn't slow down. There is never enough time for anything. I feel like I am not making the most of the time I have left with my Dad. I think to myself that I shouldn't say anything. I don't want to be the person to tell him that his time on this world is coming to an end. I'm sure he's very aware of it. Then again, maybe he's not. Maybe he, himself, has not faced that possibility or has been ignoring that possibility because if he faces it then it becomes all too real. Facing one's own mortality? Hell, even facing one's mortality by watching their parents come to their ends, is hard enough. </p><p>Throw in some anxiety and you have a recipe for a very shitty time in your brain. This particular party? It sucks. I never wanted to come to it in the first place, even though the invitation was sent well before I was a twinkle in my Dad's eye. Logically, I can't find a reason why I have to have this conversation. Why can't I live and let live? Then I remember every single doctor that we have dealt with and how they've just blown rainbows up his rear, said this is no big deal, blah blah blah, and how my Dad thinks that a pacemaker is the be-all-end-all cure. Except for today. Today, the nurse briefly mentioned that the blockage needs to be dealt with - meaning bypass surgery first. Then, we deal with the rest. </p><p>The whole way home I was quiet. I was stewing about the stupid argument Kacy and I got into. My brain had taken one insignificant detail and blown it completely out of proportion, not realizing until much later that I was fixating on that insignificant detail and that was my way to hide from what was really bothering me. </p><p> I picked up the cardboard boxes, looking for snakes and other creepy crawlies as I went. I even went so far as to get a shovel and leaf blower thinking if I did see something I could kill it or scare it off by blowing air at it. In this case, I'm the snake. I'm the one poised to strike- to do the dirty work. I'm just as scared as that snake, too. You hear or sense something coming towards you and there's nothing you can do about it. Right now, I see that snake. I want to just let it slither away, but the more I stare at it, the more scared I become and the more I want to make my Dad who is just sitting there, look at the snake, too. </p><p>The truth of the situation is the snake's venom; it has already struck me and the snake is poised to strike again. My brain very much wants me to put myself between my Dad and that snake, taking the brunt of the attack. I don't want my Dad to be hurt, but I know that I can't stop him from being bitten. The snake, rather than the truth, will eventually get him. I guess I'm wondering maybe if I can soften the blow by getting in between. </p><p>I don't think my anxiety will let me wait until our appointment on Thursday. I have a feeling that come sunrise and when my Dad wakes up, I'll be breaking his heart. What an absolutely shitty valentines day. </p><p><i><br /></i> </p>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403475696508024356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18006671.post-44414030583154108772024-02-14T10:47:00.004-05:002024-02-14T10:48:40.114-05:00Random thoughts from 3:25am<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFNBPK15xgz_MdHQmbmDqzChLr9gMYtOZ8l8ECSekYrJ4EswagShNsmKcw7ZQJ3ffB1cA-fwz5UgvZfGEbb7hxe6OMXdeJCaeXjpIO4d8sl0fCBoI7V89Tqwr2fihYXfK0E2msjOayBz_HcePlplHGZ4_qdyhBkdzviJ60XxUhFaRFLEL_9lRD/s1080/Your%20paragraph%20text%20(2).png" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFNBPK15xgz_MdHQmbmDqzChLr9gMYtOZ8l8ECSekYrJ4EswagShNsmKcw7ZQJ3ffB1cA-fwz5UgvZfGEbb7hxe6OMXdeJCaeXjpIO4d8sl0fCBoI7V89Tqwr2fihYXfK0E2msjOayBz_HcePlplHGZ4_qdyhBkdzviJ60XxUhFaRFLEL_9lRD/s320/Your%20paragraph%20text%20(2).png" width="320" /></a></div><br />The following was written at 3:25am. For a little context, my brain was thinking about this story that I'm writing - a reboot of some self-inserted fan fic I wrote in high school. It's kind of all over the place, but I wrote it down and found it interesting, so since this is my safe space where I write stuff... Without further ado, my late-night ramblings...<p></p><p>"What do you mean you're making it up as you go?" I asked. </p><p>"What, did you think we have a plan?" She asked. "Do you think this is all some carefully outlined story complete with charts and notes on characters?!" She laughed. "With what time do you think that is happening? We're just making it up as we go!" </p><p>Jess continued typing.</p><p>"Life is not carefully crafted and put in an outline. You can try your best to make things go the way you want, but things rarely pan out the way you think. I wanted to be a journalist - I'm a fucking realtor. I'm not a captain. You're not really a wizard. This planet does not exist. It's a way for me to deal with childhood trauma and escape into my own little world- a world my ADHD, autistic brain created. I filled it with ridiculous elements that the real you started as a joke. This world is filled with giant ducks instead of a rabbit with sharp pointy teeth. You fight static cling-ons and evil, anamorphic easter bunnies! Does any of that make sense? Realistically? No! It's all fake! It's all a story that I made up as I went to escape reality. </p><p>Save you?! I can't save you! I can barely save myself! My Dad is living in my house, dying of congestive heart failure. If there was some miracle that I could make happen so he would be perfectly fine, the way I was when I was a kid so I could have more time with him or infinity with him then I would take it. But. I can't save him. I can't save you. You don't really exist. This is why you are fading. This is why your planet is in trouble. Just like my dad and my grandpa before him - in a couple of generations no one will remember them. In a couple of generations, no one will remember me. All we can do is leave little bits of paper, clues to who and what we are. That's all we can do. The question is- what do you want to say? That you perfectly planned your life? You followed the rules and did what everyone told you to do, followed the line your parents set forth for you- THEIR life plan for you? Or are you going to make you own plan?</p><p>I choose to wing it. Just like this story. Start writing and see where it takes me. Maybe it will be to some far away planet. Unlikely, but I can pretend. I can call it my happy place. It will be a place where I do everything that I want to do in real life but can't do due to physics, budget, or whatever. I choose to make my life - real and pretend, as colorful as possible. I choose to fill it with people I love, funny stories and random adventures.</p><p>I know right now sucks. I know right now I'm stuck doing something that I don't like and don't necessarily want to do. But I'm going to do it and until I can get out there and actually have those adventures for myself, I'm going to write. And by writing- that allows me to save your planet. And maybe, just maybe you won't be forgotten.</p><p>That's all we are. We are all fighting to be remembered. It doesn't matter what we do because only a few of us will be remembered for greatness. Not everyone gets the opportunity or the option to be remembered. So why not live it how you want while you're alive? Why try and write someone else's story? It all comes down to worry about yourself. No one really cares how you lived your life." </p><p><br /></p>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403475696508024356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18006671.post-85309431645183213432024-02-12T15:44:00.000-05:002024-02-12T15:44:27.581-05:00By the NumbersWhen I was a kid and my Dad and I would take roadtrips together, we would sit down at the kitchen counter with the atlas and map out the route we would take to our destination. The journey would begin right there, staring at the full map of the US, deciding which way we were going to go. We would then go to the individual state maps, following the highways, looking for things along the way that we might want to stop and see. <div><br /></div><div>I love road trips with my Dad. I have been wanting to do one more road trip with him but I don't think we're going to have the chance. When I started driving, he gifted me my own atlas. At the age of 16, I was driving from northern Indiana to western Kentucky (usually with a friend) heading down to visit my Dad on school breaks. I would break out the atlas and plot my route to various destinations, doing research on different places that I may want to stop. </div><div><br /></div><div>One particular weekend took me from Madisonville, KY to West Lafayette, IN, to Indianapolis, to Terre Haute, back to Madisonville, to St. Louis, back to West Lafayette, Indianapolis and finally home to Madisonville. We went to a concert in Indy, Six Flags, and put about a thousand miles on my Plymouth hatchback. I don't think my Dad was too amused, but that atlas.... it got a workout. It's one of my fondest memories. </div><div><br /></div><div>I love having a roadmap. I love knowing how to get from point A to B. Even now with GPS I will still look at the map and see what the best route for my purposes are. Figuring out which direction I want to go rings true for how I run my life too. I would write down on a sheet of paper the route I wanted to take. I write lists of things that I need to do every day to feel accomplished. Deviation for that list, that map of my daily routine, throws me for a loop. Sure, there are some days that those deviations can lead to some fun and distraction, but for the most part it usually ends up with me overstimulated and upset that I didn't accomplish my mission. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am currently looking at the roadmap that is my Dad's health. This map has only one destination. I see the data, I see which way it's pointing, and I see the choices we have to make. Do we go one way and attempt to kick the can down the road for another few years. </div><div><br /></div><div>There is an 87% chance that my Dad would survive the surgery. This is if no other complications arise. There is the complication, however, that he has progressed to stage 3B of kidney disease based on his creatine level and other labs that were done last week. Currently, his heart is working at 30% capacity. The TL;DR version looks like this: There is a roughly 7% chance my Dad will live for another 3 years. There is roughly a 34% chance he will live for a year. I spoke with a hospice nurse this afternoon (because I'm planning on having THAT conversation with my Dad when I'm not feeling so chicken shit) and she said that if she were the cardiologist along with what she has seen in her experience, she wouldn't recommend getting the surgery done. She would keep him comfortable and let him do whatever the hell he wants to do until he can't. </div><div><br /></div><div>My mind paints a pretty picture where my Dad spends the day on his tractor, plowing the back field, smiling in the sunshine, coming in after working, taking a shower, plopping down on the couch and simply drifting off to sleep while watching one of his favorite tv shows and never waking up. </div><div><br /></div><div>Realistically, I know my Dad can't even climb up on his tractor let alone plow the field. Realistically, I know just walking to the bathroom wears him out. Realistically, I know that he doesn't even have the mental capacity to be able to send even the most basic email. </div><div><br /></div><div>Inside I'm falling apart but outside I have to keep a smile on my face for him because if he sees that I'm upset he gets upset. If he gets upset, it's all I can do not to start crying myself. I just don't feel like I can show him that side. I feel like I have to be brave. I feel like I can't show him how torn up I am. I feel like my m.o. is currently like that of an ostrich, sticking my head in the sand to avoid oncoming danger. </div><div>All the while also feeling incredibly guilty for wanting some form of normalcy and wishing for this all to be done. I know the minute it's all done I'm going to be wishing for more. </div><div><br /></div><div>Why don't we talk about this? Why don't we discuss this with our family? Why don't we express that fear? Why is that so hard to do? Is it a generational trauma thing? If we talk about it maybe we'll realize that what we do on the daily doesn't matter - maybe we'll realize that we should enjoy the time we have. Maybe we'll realize that the day to day is stupid and we should concentrate on what makes us happy? Maybe we realize that having the latest pink stanley cup or whatever crazy fad isn't what's important - that our family and spending time with the people that we love is important. </div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know... I think I'm just pissed at the cards that are currently in my hand and I desperately want to change them out. The odds aren't in my favor for a happy outcome. I think I just want to flip the table over, scatter the chips, and then burn it all down. Can I do that? </div>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403475696508024356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18006671.post-81338410786649858522024-02-01T03:00:00.003-05:002024-02-01T03:00:46.770-05:00Insomniacs Unite!<p> It is currently not quite 2:30 in the morning and I've made the usual rounds to websites that I tend to visit in the middle of the night when I'm suffering from a bout of insomnia. I just got a notification on my phone that one of my friends is also currently suffering from a bout of insomnia. It's not just my mind that won't turn off, though. My body is rebelling as well. </p><p>Trigger warning: we're gonna talk about all the bodily functions of a woman at the age of 45. </p><p>Things they don't tell you in school and that my Mom didn't want to talk to me about: perimenopause. Seriously, I had never heard about such a thing until a few years ago. They talk about "the change" that women of a certain age go through, but they really don't go in-depth with it, and they don't tell you that before you cease to menstruate completely, your body undergoes a period of what I can only describe as pure upheaval. </p><p>I find myself looking back to my teenage years and I cannot help but tell people who knew me that my body was just gearing up for the main event. Perimenopause, in my opinion, ain't got nuthin' on my teenage years. </p><p>So, what are these symptoms? My emotions turn on a dime, my ADHD is SO MUCH WORSE than it ever has been, the rage.... Oh, the RAGE that can rear its head at any given time for the smallest of annoyances? While the word "fuck" was commonplace in my vocabulary, I will now give the foulest mouth sailor a run for his money. </p><p>Y'all, I even made a construction worker cry last year with the amount of F-bombs I dropped. I believe there were 53 in the span of a 10-minute conversation, there were witnesses, and I am not even exaggerating a little bit there. </p><p>And then there are times when I want to do nothing but cry because of whatever. It can be a beautiful piece of art, it can be the color of flowers, the clouds in the sky. I could cry because I'm happy. I could cry because I'm mad. I could cry because I am overwhelmingly distraught that I can't do what I really want to do. I have cried because someone was nice to me. I've cried because someone was mean. </p><p>There's also screaming or wanting to scream because something pisses me off. There are the overly animated, extremely enthusiastic moments. The range of emotions that I can experience on any given day is ridiculous! For a while there I thought I was some sort of bipolar, but after working with a therapist for almost a year, we are pretty damn sure that yours truly is perimenopausal. Not only that, but you add in the amount of stress that I've dealt with this past year and the fact that I have other symptoms that track? Yeahhhhh.... </p><p>I made an appointment with a gynecologist to discuss this with them. That didn't go so well. The doctor came in and asked me if my periods were normally on time, I said yeah, she said "Your ovaries are working. You're not perimenopausal." She was in and out in under 10 minutes. She didn't listen to any of my concerns about other symptoms like these wonderful bouts of insomnia, the night sweats that sometimes have me changing my sheets the next day, and the fact that I can be all over the place. I am fairly certain that if I went on HRT ("horrormone" replacement therapy) I would be in better shape. </p><p>Do you know what else I have learned while going down this rabbit hole? I have learned that during that time of the month if you have ADHD, it can get worse. Oh, and don't forget about the brain fog that we tend to get. Yeah, that was another thing they didn't tell you about when you were in school - they joke about pregnancy brain when you're pregnant, but soooooo many people don't realize that is actually a real thing! When your hormones (I still like to call them horrormones) get all out of whack, your brain (especially if you have ADHD) gets more out of whack than normal. </p><p>NO ONE EVER EXPLAINED THIS TO ME!</p><p>No one ever said that these changes start in your 40s (sometimes even in your late 30s!). Do you want to know why so many women get divorced around now? It's because their partners were not warned about the impending shift in a woman's body! So many people just end up tucking and rolling or hiding from their partners until some semblance of normality reappears. But then, there's another thing that they don't tell you: normal can last for only a few days to a week. </p><p>Let's use me as an example (because I know my body). I know that around 14 days before I'm scheduled to have my period, I'm going to be cramping and I'm going to be in a pretty foul mood. This only lasts a few days, though. A week before my period, I get super tired and just want to nap. It's like my body is gearing up for what's coming the week of my period. The actual week of my period? Days 1-3 can go one of two ways depending on my mood. Either I will have this burst of energy and general lovey-dovey-ness or I turn into a dragon that you should hide from. Day 3, though, you can pretty much guarantee that I'm going to be in a foul mood and should be left alone so suffer in silence. Seriously, I say these things for your own good. I have been known to be incredibly nasty on day 3. Not only nasty, but kinda scary. The whole week I'm surfing the crimson wave I will be a sweaty mess at night. I will toss, turn, and not be able to get comfortable to save my life. I will stay away, attempting to read or write, hoping that whatever is in my brain gets out so I can close my eyes and just... chill. </p><p>Like now, for example. I'm ridiculously tired, have an early day tomorrow, and want nothing more than to go to sleep. But my bed is too hot (I have three fans going in our room, thermostat down to 72, and two of those fans are directly pointed at my head) and my legs (even having not shaved in a little more than a month) feel like slip 'n' slides they're so sweaty. </p><p>Lately, we have added the whole "breaking out" thing to the repertoire too. Right now, there is a pimple that I can feel deep in my sinus cavities that is growing next to one of my eyebrows. This sucker is deep and I want it to go away and no amount of zit cream is going to make this thing go away any faster. </p><p>Women, if you're about that age, start doing your research. I'm looking for a new doctor and I'm having my hormone levels tested. I'm fairly sure they're out of whack and if I can get them back on track I will be in a better place mentally and physically. The problem is, I've got to get a doctor to actually listen. Would someone please tell me why the hell doctors don't like to listen to women? I mean, we kinda know our bodies and how they respond to different things better than they do, right? </p><p>Ugh. Did I mention that I really just want to go to sleep? Yeah.... this sucks. </p>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403475696508024356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18006671.post-13109783315729893562024-01-30T11:25:00.001-05:002024-01-30T11:25:14.087-05:00All of the words and none of the words. <p>I want to scream. </p><p>I want to scream, yell, cry, shout, hurl things across the room, break something. I have all of the words going through my head yet at the same time I lack the ability to express exactly how fucking pissed off I am. Yeah, fucking pissed off. That hits the tip of the iceberg but beneath the surface you know how deep that fucker is? </p><p>The worst part? It's not like I can do anything BUT scream, shout, throw a temper tantrum, whathaveyou. I don't have the ability to do anything about this except maybe uproot my family once again and GTFO. </p><p>On this day, some high muckity muck in Florida decided that your drivers license has to say what sex you are at birth otherwise if you get pulled over and a cop doesn't think you're the gender that your license is, they can essentially arrest you for fraud. This means if I'm traveling with my wife, we get pulled over, they ask her for her drivers license and they see that it says F for female and they don't think she's a woman, they can say "That's fraud!" And promptly throw her in jail for it. </p><p>I have fallen in love with this state. It's beautiful. I love living here. I love the recharge from the sun on my skin, the sand in my toes, and waves at the beach. I love driving under the canopy of intertwined trees and all of the flowers and wildlife. There is nothing like the beauty of this state anywhere else in this country. It is absolutely filling me with rage that I'm pretty much going to have to leave it because there are certain fucksticks in this state that think it's any of their business that I or my wife (or any person for that matter) has between our legs. Essentially, Florida wants to dress code the human existence. </p><p>Fuck you, Florida. </p><p>Seriously. Think about it- how are they going to enforce this? Are we all going to have to show are tits, vag and/or penis if we want to go to the bathroom? Are they going to MRI our inner bits before we go into a stall? Nope! Sorry, you've got ovaries! You can't go into the man's bathroom! Nope, sorry! You have a vagina! You can't go into a man's bathroom! Fucking pearl-clutching fucksticks. What about inter-sex people? People that have both? Are you making allowances for them? </p><p>Fuck you Florida. I'm really mad at you right now. It makes me scared to go out with my wife because I'm scared that she's going to be targeted. It makes me scared to go out with my 23 year old because he is very non-binary. Are you going to make my 15 year old son cut his hair because it's almost down to his ass? </p><p>I am angry and I don't know what to do other than throw a tantrum and say fuck you, Florida. More specifically- fuck you you fucking fucksticks that make the rules. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403475696508024356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18006671.post-20530560076086223642024-01-21T10:27:00.004-05:002024-01-21T10:27:35.967-05:00Ghost stories.<p> It has been a while since I've heard from my Mom. </p><p>Okay, I know that's a weird statement because well, in case you missed it, my Mom passed away in 2019. Here's the thing though.... my Mom has, up until very recently, kept her presence (at least, our theory is that it's her presence) known in our home since she passed. </p><p>The first occurrence was actually the day she passed. There was a framed poster that she kept in her home that I kept after we moved her into memory care. Because it's an awkward shape and the frame is a bit too heavy for just a nail, we installed it with a screw so it would stay on the wall without falling. The day that she passed, that poster fell to the ground. The frame was completely intact, the screw that held it up still in the wall; the poster had just fallen. The glass in the frame didn't crack, the frame didn't crack (it fell a couple of feet), everything was perfectly fine. My oldest was instantly like "That was Abi!" (Abi is short for Abuelita.)</p><p>Around the poster we have other artwork in her home, made by Panamanian artists, that would randomly get moved, just nudged out of place but nudged enough so we would notice. When we moved to our current house and had her piano set up, I created a corner where I had her favorite artwork and I also had other artwork featuring some of my favorite musicians. On top of the piano, I placed pictures of her and my Dad along with pictures of my grandparents. Since no one in the family plays piano on the regular, that area of our living room has turned into temporary storage for an entire Ikea kitchen and bathroom that is supposed to go in the casita, the rower, an extra couch (also for the casita that I purchased from the previous owner of our house) and a bunch of artwork that I had to take down due to prepping to paint our own house. My Mom makes it known that she does not like all the clutter there and she does so by moving the paintings on the wall. Sometimes they're just a little bit askew. Other times, more so. </p><p>I thought I was crazy, that perhaps the cats were doing it, but the cats tend to avoid that area. One afternoon, I saw that they were askew and I went and moved them back so they were straight. Kacy and I were talking and I walked into the kitchen, Kacy turned back to her computer (which is in the same room) and when I walked back into the room, the paintings were moved. </p><p>"Son of a bitch! Thanks, Mom!" I said sarcastically. Kacy instinctually looked over at the paintings, because we had been talking about how I thought she moved them. </p><p>Her eyes got wide and she looked at me and said "You just fixed those. I saw you, you just fixed those." </p><p>I nodded in agreement, walked back over to the paintings (having to climb over a couple of boxes), and said "I know, she does this to me." My oldest popped out and asked if Abi had come for a visit. I told them, yeah, she had, and set back to moving the paintings back so they weren't crooked. </p><p>In October we moved my Dad in with me. The paintings moved so they were relatively crooked once and then we had nothing until near Christmas. They moved just slightly in December, but only once. It was like my Mom was saying "Yeah, I'm still checking on you." They haven't moved since then. </p><p>This week we should be getting all of the Ikea stuff out of that corner and we should be able to have everything straightened and cleaned up. I'm hoping she comes by and says hi. Only time will tell...</p><p> </p>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403475696508024356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18006671.post-22196142629306725352024-01-13T14:55:00.003-05:002024-01-13T14:55:53.089-05:00The Entertainment Director Needs a Break.<p> For the past week, I've been really concentrating more on work and less on keeping my Dad entertained. My Dad, who is understandably tired of watching TV, reading and pretty much doing nothing all day, doesn't make any motion to keep himself entertained at all. Most days, the tv doesn't get turned on until the evening when I change from "work clothes" to pjs and turn it on myself. I'm more of a Parks and Rec girl and while my dad has been enjoying the show, he's more of a Magnum PI kind of guy. </p><p>Now, don't get me wrong. Magnum P.I. is quality tv. I used to love sitting on my Dad's lap watching it when I was a kid. My problem is the fact that I always appear to be the one who is attempting to entertain my dad. He seems to be incapable of entertaining himself, occasionally walking outside and sitting at the end of the drive way, walking to the end of the pool and back and then parking himself on the chairs by the pool, or just sitting in his chair, staring at I have no idea what. </p><p>More and more, lately, I've been hiding away for longer lengths of time just so I can have some breathing room. Kacy and I have been going to bed earlier just so we can get some alone time and watch something we want to watch in the comfort of our own bedroom. Our lives are not our own. They revolve around an 82 year old man who less than a year ago was capable of driving from Kentucky to Florida no problem. </p><p>I'm frustrated. I'm not mad, I'm frustrated. I'm frustrated that my Dad doesn't want to do anything. I'm frustrated that the stuff that I would normally do with my dad (museums, the zoo, whatever out and about) he can't handle because he gets tired so easily and when he's tired he's grumpy. I'm frustrated because everything I do has to be scheduled around him and I'm especially frustrated since now that I have a friend that is coming over weekly to play a Star Trek DND game with me and Kacy (we're trying to recruit more players), that my Dad complains that my friend "talks to much" and asks "what the hell is he trying to sell?" I explain over and over it's a game and that we're enjoying playing it, that the point of the game is to tell a story but he doesn't get it. I know he probably doesn't mean to, but it's like everything that I want to do is stupid. I feel that way because of the way he acts. </p><p>This afternoon, he wants me to find a movie to watch. He says put on what I want to watch. First thought? I would have put on Sixteen Candles. I've been in the mood to watch it. My Dad's choice? It's on right now - Flags of Our Fathers. You can take the history teacher out of the classroom... Ha! My dad got up and went to the bathroom before it started, I paused, and when he came back I turned it back on for him and walked away. </p><p>I have given him the remote, explained how to ask Siri for help, and it's like he just doesn't want to be bothered. It's like my purpose in life now is to entertain him and I really feel like that's not fair. I haven't been on a date with my wife in months now. It sucks. I want my life back. And at the same time, I feel like the most horrible person on the planet every time I even think something like that. I hear my Mom's voice in my head telling me I'm selfish and I should be thankful that he's here with us. I am thankful he's still here with us. And honestly, there is nothing wrong with needing a break every so often, right? I say that like I'm asking permission - maybe I am. I'm really tired of asking for permission, though. I'm really tired and I need a break. </p>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403475696508024356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18006671.post-20928404361752889942024-01-07T13:35:00.001-05:002024-01-07T13:35:11.416-05:00QuicksandBack in the 80's, I was always worried about getting stuck in quick sand. It didn't matter that I lived in Kentucky and quick sand wasn't really a thing, I would see it on some cartoon where the hero (or a villain) was getting sucked into quick sand and I was always worried that I would somehow end up in a puddle (are they puddles?) of quick sand, slowly sinking to my death. It didn't matter that they would always say that if you stayed still, you would sink slower. My brain knew that I was incapable of staying still for very long. I knew that if I was ever stuck in quick sand I would be turning and attempting to get myself out of that particular predicament until my head sank beneath the surface. Only then, would I be rescued by the likes of Indiana Jones, Wesley from Princess Bride or maybe even Thomas Magnum of Magnum P.I. <div><br /></div><div>I had a very vivid imagination and I'm happy to announce I never had to use the part of my brain necessary to attempt to escape quicksand by myself (nor was I rescued by any of those heroes - my adult self is a little disappointed by not meeting those heroes, but hey- I'm still young even if they're older and shall we say, more distinguished). I always told myself that I thrive in chaos. I honestly think I do well when there's a lot of stuff coming at me that needs me to quickly come to a decision. I feel like I do well when people are hem-hawing and can't come to a decision and the decision falls to me. At the same time, though, I absolutely hate being the one to actually make a decision. </div><div><br /></div><div>There have been many times throughout my marriage to Kacy where I would get upset because whatever was for dinner or wherever we were going to go, whatever movie we were going to watch on the tv would fall to me. How we were going to spend our weekends, vacations, etc. They all fell to me. I would get upset because I would want just one outing planned by Kacy - one date that didn't depend on me determining where we were going to go. While every so often I still feel that way, Kacy very succinctly explained it to me that if she did plan something for us to do and "got it wrong" that I would be upset. By "got it wrong" I mean plan something not quite as romantic or adventurous as I had in my head. These days I am pleasantly surprised when Kacy plans an outing. She planned our last anniversary and it was nothing short of amazing and romantic and wonderful. </div><div><br /></div><div>Today, however, I find myself absolutely stuck between what I know I should probably do, what I want to do and what my dad wants and what my dad should do. I'm making decisions for him and I know what the right decision is, but I'm also trying to consider how he feels and what he wants and frankly, it sucks. </div><div><br /></div><div>My Dad's blood pressure has been severely low this weekend. He is on a drug to bring it up (this has been an issue since we were in KY) but that drug just does not seem to be "cutting the mustard," as he's fond of saying. While he is above where the doctor said to be as far as going to the hospital, today we have been fighting to get it up to where it needs to be. I spoke with his doctor on Friday when this started and the doctor said if he went below 90 to take him to the ER. It has drifted down several times, but then comes back up to above that mark. It's borderline. My logical brain says that I should take my Dad to the hospital but my Dad and the side of my brain that wants to respect my Dad's wishes, says to just let him rest here at home and call his cardiologist tomorrow with the various readings we've been taking. </div><div><br /></div><div>My Dad wants to avoid the hospital at all costs. He won't admit it, but he does not want to die in the hospital and he's afraid that if he goes to the hospital (with the exception of this procedure that we're waiting for the cardiologist to schedule in which they're going to try and get his heart back into rhythm) then he will probably die in the hospital. Personally, I don't want him to die in the hospital and I know for a fact that he doesn't want to die in the hospital either. If he had his druthers, he'd pass peacefully at the age of 90-something, in his sleep. If I had my way, I would find some way to keep him alive until it was my time to die and then we'd both pass peacefully, leaving the world at the same time, onto whatever adventure the after-life holds. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm sitting here now, though, getting ready to go out on a work thing, my Dad laying in his bed. I'm worried that he's not telling me something, his blood pressure very low, worried that it will go lower but I know that all they would do in the hospital is have him in bed, doing the same thing he's doing here. Talking with him, I can see the fear in his eyes. I can see that he's not telling me something, but I can also see that he would much rather be home, reading or in bed, taking a nap. I'm the one in charge here. I'm the parent, now. I'm the one that has to decide whether or not we go to the hospital. Part of me very much wants to take him to the hospital but part of me is wondering what's going to be different other than them poking and prodding him, giving him IVs that he doesn't like, etc. We're to the part of life for him where I want him comfortable and happy. That's the mantra: comfortable and happy. So, even though I have analysis paralysis, I default to the mantra: comfortable and happy. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have to maintain the status quo and it's really freakin' hard. Because I worry about doing the right thing. It's like I'm stuck in that quicksand - no matter what I do I'm gonna sink. No matter what I do, my Dad is getting worse and there's nothing I can really do about it. And unfortunately, I don't think we can be rescued. There might be a bandaid that can be done, but I'm afraid that time is growing short. I'm also really mad that I can't have that one last adventure with my Dad because honestly, right now he isn't up to it. But that is another blog and/or therapy session. </div>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403475696508024356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18006671.post-20522765714162307662024-01-03T13:17:00.002-05:002024-01-03T13:17:32.916-05:00New Year, Same old Jess<p>We survived New Year mostly intact. The whole sickness that Ace brought back from the great northern wasteland (I call it that affectionately, people.) made it's way through Ace, Kacy and then myself. Both Kacy and I took turns over doing it and ending up back in bed, feeling worse than we did before. I think we have finally managed to come to a compromise that has both of us calling it a night around 8pm, heading to our room and falling asleep anywhere before 10pm. Kacy then will wake up ass early in the morning (or at least ass early in my opinion) and I will sleep till around 9am. This arrangement seems to be working. At least, today it seems to be working. </p><p>Today I have been making the requisite phone calls and scheduling the necessary tasks for work, life, etc. The worst part about dealing with scheduling stuff around the holidays is the holidays and everyone going on vacation. I called this morning about my Dad's holter test that was done on Dec. 2nd and it still hasn't been transcribed. Getting the results have been nothing short of frustrating and led me to actually make a call to his new cardiologist and ask if it was better to just have the holter redone since the old cardiologist seemed to be dragging their feet. </p><p>I'm still waiting for a response there. </p><p>I feel like I've been fairly productive, though. I wrote my cousin a big long letter, I've returned phone calls, scheduled things for work, dealt with insurance hiccups, dealt with work hiccups and have been in a fairly good mood doing so. I need to find time to get my glasses repaired and I missed my hair appointment because I really couldn't drive the day that I was scheduled. Honestly, I wouldn't have wanted to pass this plague onto my stylist anyway. I like her far too much. For the most part, 2024 has started out rather smoothly with decisions made that have moved the plot along. </p><p>Now, if only we could get the guy to call us back about the floors for the casita and get that scheduled, I'd be incredibly happy. </p><p>I decided that I wasn't going to do any kind of resolutions or pick a word that was going to be my year or anything like that. I don't want to sign myself up for any more work than I already have, I'm already starting the year off tired and I'm thinking it is only going to get better from here. So yeah, if it's a slow burn, rock and roll. I'm perfectly okay with a slow burn. I could use some slow for a while. Not too slow, though, because we all know how impatient I can be. </p><p>If anything, I'd like to continue the exploration of myself this year. I'd like to say that I'm going to learn how to say no and how to set proper boundaries, but I know that may not be the easiest of tasks to undertake so I'm going to just go with the current. I am, however, not going to allow myself to feel bad for saying no. That's one thing that I'm definitely going to do. I'm going to try and take on less but still do what I can and want to help people. I am, however, going to be a lot more selfish about my time and if I'm going to be more honest about that. If I don't feel like doing something, then I'm just going to be honest rather than giving some half-baked excuse. I'm going to allow myself to breathe, recover and move forward and through this year. I think a good word for this year is going to be fluid. I want to move through it like water. Sure, there may be some rough patches, but I'll keep following the current. I'm hoping that if anything I enjoy the process. </p><p><br /></p>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403475696508024356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18006671.post-80177004584540156102023-12-28T12:19:00.002-05:002023-12-28T12:19:26.137-05:00Rocket Jess<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVhT1fcHc08_k7vV7T9QD14iF8gmZgBg8ij9JQjgxF8_vOhr9OxYHX1OalEkAfLODYXisNnPVe2_dKVqbdUo6JZL8ns6GRIBcdUQJ577kcLZKQU_hSmyc6SfROPJuUNHtF1bsl0yHLA_z-oShyphenhyphenEOGsUBKsWK5kog_sjHPxvQCdMRQnYHnsMiQy/s1200/rocket%20jess%20(1).png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVhT1fcHc08_k7vV7T9QD14iF8gmZgBg8ij9JQjgxF8_vOhr9OxYHX1OalEkAfLODYXisNnPVe2_dKVqbdUo6JZL8ns6GRIBcdUQJ577kcLZKQU_hSmyc6SfROPJuUNHtF1bsl0yHLA_z-oShyphenhyphenEOGsUBKsWK5kog_sjHPxvQCdMRQnYHnsMiQy/s320/rocket%20jess%20(1).png" width="213" /></a></div><br />Today I have a rocket up my ass. <p></p><p>I decided, after a several month hiatus, to actually take an adderall. I have the ADHD, I have the prescription, I have a lot of stuff to do and I had forgotten how good it felt to really be able to focus. The only problem, however, is that I have way too much to focus on. I am now in the ADHD paralysis mode of where I have no idea what to tackle first. I'm running around like a crazy person, flitting from one task to the other wondering when the crash will come. </p><p>Kacy is still down with this horrible cold, as is Ace, and I am feeling the whole horrible throat pain coming up and I'm trying to avoid my Dad like I have the plague, because the last thing I want to do is get him sick. I am also bouncing (quite literally at this point) back from an epic meltdown I had two days ago where I was completely overwhelmed and overstimulated. We're talking ugly crying here, people. </p><p>That was followed by a day of me being an epic bitch to everyone, trying desperately to carve out a place where I wouldn't be bothered yet still trying to keep an eye on my Dad (who wasn't feeling that great) and trying REALLY hard not to take it out on him. I'm sure he picked up on the attitude, though. I'm not the most subtle person. I believe the phrase is: "subtle as a sledgehammer." Yeahhhhh.....</p><p>But today is a completely different day. It's days like this that I feel like I have some sort of manic disorder. Up and down up and down up and down. One day I'm crying, the next I'm pissed at the world, the next, I'm bouncing off the walls. </p><p>And craving a bacon cheeseburger. Yummmmm....</p><p>So yeah, Kacy is sick. Ace is sick. I'm trying not to get my Dad sick with this cold because I'm fairly sure I'm sick, too. And yet I decided instead of being a slug on the couch all day I was gonna take an adderall. </p><p>I want to do something creative. I want to paint my kitchen. I want to re-organize my work space (which I already did yesterday because I was doing the whole rage cleaning thing). I want to re-organize the living room and Ace and Megan's room. I want to deep clean everything. I want to take a nap. </p><p>A nap would certainly be the ideal choice. I have absolutely no business reorganizing the living room or the kids' rooms. (At least not until the kitchen stuff is out of my living room - clarification: the casita's entire ikea kitchen is still sitting in my living room.). Painting sounds like too much work for me right now and while I have the concentration of a dentist cleaning a lion that is only under sedation for a short amount of time, I do not have the brain capacity to think past two seconds from now. </p><p>I could do something some music making or work on some art but my computer suffering from the lack of processing power and really needs an upgrade - I'm kicking that can down the road, though. I should go ahead and buy one this year so I can deduct it from my taxes but it just doesn't make the best financial sense right now to spend two grand on something that I may not even get to really utilize until spring if not summer. I would much rather spend the cash on something useful, like a vacation. Which I could DEFINITELY use. That, however, won't happen for a while either. Today, I'm okay with that. </p><p>I am bouncing all over the place, though, and I need to find a place to put my energy. Something that doesn't require a lot of thought. That means work is straight out. I also can't go out and play because it's raining buckets currently. It would be a great day to go go-karting in Orlando, but I have to go to Orlando tomorrow and frankly, I don't want to fight the Christmas holiday disney traffic two days in a row. </p><p>I guess my only solution is dance party in the kitchen for as long as my lungs can hold out. </p><p><br /></p>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403475696508024356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18006671.post-63274526670614058942023-12-27T14:21:00.000-05:002023-12-27T14:21:00.197-05:00My Dad vs. Mac<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWWXWznzgMkUY5RJ1v9PWmMhCg9taOYDJO660rZ5VRR4xrHdl1cQaNDPJZ2tFgCJ5Gl6LBnh5KtPUXoju20NSOvlYlcvp2EShZXWQaNONl80SPc_kRNZOVsYI0l0wk3ZO87zahQYBa9bP410Bi_dyDnGX4x76Wcqj54B-TPHOgnfnQBYUG_Sxz/s1200/Untitled%20design%20(6).png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWWXWznzgMkUY5RJ1v9PWmMhCg9taOYDJO660rZ5VRR4xrHdl1cQaNDPJZ2tFgCJ5Gl6LBnh5KtPUXoju20NSOvlYlcvp2EShZXWQaNONl80SPc_kRNZOVsYI0l0wk3ZO87zahQYBa9bP410Bi_dyDnGX4x76Wcqj54B-TPHOgnfnQBYUG_Sxz/s320/Untitled%20design%20(6).png" width="213" /></a></div><br /> There are certain times that I want to throttle my Dad and those times generally surround whenever he is using his computer. He completely locked himself out of his hotmail account (which, hotmail sucks and the level of spam on there is incredulous!) and about 10 minutes ago I saved him from completely locking himself out of his computer. <p></p><p>I also informed him that if he got himself locked out of his computer that he would NOT be using my computer or anyone elses' computer in this house because of several reasons but the main one being that he is constantly having to have his password reset and a password reset which he can't remember because he didn't tell me about is how we got into the hotmail fiasco to begin with. </p><p>Way back in the day when AOL and Compuserve ruled the world wide web, my Mom was constantly messing stuff up on the computer and then stating that I had done something to the computer and why did I mess it up when it was very much a her issue. </p><p>My Dad will cuss his computer, asking why is it doing something or why won't it do something when he is the cause of the problem. Which means I have to bail him out of whatever problem he's having. Honestly? If he weren't so with it - and by with it I mean he usually goes to the same pages over and over, in the same pattern every day multiple times a day expecting whatever is on the page to be different. Nothing changes. The only thing that changes is that he mistypes the passwords and gets kicked out or can't get into whatever he's trying to do. (Note: I do have all of his important pages, including email, bookmarked on my computer and have sent power of attorney to all the really important accounts and set up my own access to those accounts.) As much as I hate to admit it, I long for the day when he can't use the damn thing anymore because it's such a headache. </p><p>It also doesn't help that when he gets himself into these predicaments, he has absolutely no patience and whatever must be fixed now now now now now. It doesn't matter what I'm doing, I have to stop and help. If I don't stop and help, the attitude I get is ridiculous. On top of that, my Dad will know that he's pushing buttons and pushes those metaphorical buttons even harder, scaling up his verbal chiding the longer it takes me to undo whatever damage he's done. </p><p>I am to the point where I'm just going through the motions, myself. Wake up, deal with Dad, go to sleep, lather, rinse, repeat. It's not just the computer anymore, either. It's everything. </p><p>He has no patience. He doesn't understand that it's the holiday season and people take vacations, hence why these doctor offices aren't calling back with test results or forwarding those test results or scheduling anything. We are in the no-man's-land that is between Christmas and New Year. Nothing is getting scheduled until after the first of the year and there's no point trying to push it, either, because there is nothing that can be done if the people that schedule are out of the office. </p><p>The funny thing is that my Dad would be off practically the whole month of December and a good portion of January and he would always tell people he wasn't going to do something because he was on vacation. He would say something to the effect of "well, they're just gonna have to wait." </p><p>That apparently does not apply to him. To which I love to remind him to check his privilege. </p><p>I hate the fact that everything surrounding my Dad feels like a chore. I wish there was some switch I could flip where I can just turn my brain off and enjoy the time that I have left with him. I feel like everything I do is management, though. I can't take him out because he gets worn out too easily. We can't go out to eat because he has a tendency to throw up his food. Going out is a production in itself that either involves a walker, a mobility scooter, and generally me telling Dad which way to go and the outing taking at least an hour longer than it should, if not more. On a more personal level, even I don't want to leave the house. Leaving the house is such a chore! I am definitely depressed. Thankfully, I have a therapist. </p><p>I guess I should be thankful for the fact that he made it through Christmas. I guess I should be thankful for the fact that he didn't get locked out of his computer. It's really hard to feel thankful, though, with the decline being so drastic. I feel like that's a really tall order, though. I'm sure I will be thankful for this time when he's gone and I'll laugh at the fact that I had to help him out so much on his computer. I just wish I didn't have to. I wish he could be totally with it so we could have some more fun adventures, go go-karting, ride horses, drive an hour just to go to Portillos and have a chili dog without him throwing up. I just can't seem to settle. </p><p><br /></p>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403475696508024356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18006671.post-17748079854159736512023-12-27T09:08:00.005-05:002023-12-27T09:08:57.187-05:00Feeling guilty.<p>We made it through Christmas. </p><p>That phrase keeps repeating through my head. We made it through Christmas. Like it has been an impossible task. A chore. Something to just get through. Since August I did not believe my Dad would make it this far. Yesterday (the 26th), my Dad was discharged from physical therapy. While I didn't think he needed physical therapy because he can move around pretty well on his own, I have to admit that I think it has done him some good. He can now walk to pool deck and back unassisted, but it's not the day time stuff that has me worried. It's at night when he's super confused. </p><p>I don't think Kacy quite believed about how bad he can get at night, but due to Ace being sick with the nastiest head cold I've seen in a while (no, it's not covid, we checked), and me being pretty much a bitch to deal with during the day because I'm not getting good sleep, Kacy is sacrificing her night and took over as night nurse last night. This morning when she crawled into bed, we chatted briefly about my Dad last night and she was definitely shocked that he was as bad as he was at night. </p><p>The term the nurses used was sun-downing. I'm more than familiar with it. What pisses me off the most, though, is the fact that he completely tries to pull the wool over the doctors and nurses eyes and sits there telling them that he's not in pain (which, you can tell especially in the evenings that he is very much in pain) and he also stays jovial, chatty and I have to sit there next to him and say "Lies, deceptions!" </p><p>The nurse would look at him, then look at me, and my Dad will give me this look like I completely betrayed him in some epic kind of way and then the nurse is like "what's going on..." and I have to tell her everything that's going on. The fact that he fights me on taking medicine, the fact that he gets very confused at night, the fact that his left arm and his left hip have been hurting more and more, the fact that he is now down to 136lbs and when he got here to Florida he was in the upper 150lbs range. He's a shadow of what he once was and Kacy has to keep reminding me when I get upset that all he has the capacity for is to repeat the stories that he's told over and over again or sit and stare at the wall. Good days for my dad mean he can read one of the books we got him for Christmas (he loves reading and took over my kindle with wild abandon after I showed him how to download books from the library). </p><p>The words burned out keep repeating themselves over and over in my head. "Jess, you're burned out." Yes, I'm aware. I am fully aware. I can't do a damn thing about it. It sucks. It wasn't enough that the candle was burning from both ends, it's in the middle as well. So, what do I do? I don't have the mental capacity to do my job to the level that I want, but I feel like I'm letting my family and co-workers down. I get ridiculously angry over the smallest thing not going the way my brain wants it to and my expectations are way way way to high. Yesterday, the only thing I wanted to do was cry. I finally succeeded on that front around 3:30 in the afternoon when I had a right, proper meltdown. </p><p>At least I don't feel bad about having a meltdown now? Is that progress? I just feel guilty for having the meltdown in front of Kacy. I feel guilty because Kacy has been my support and my rock through this whole process but she doesn't really have anyone she can lose it in front of. I try very hard to shift into the role of caregiver but that's not who I am. I'm more of the type of person to give you solutions to your problem. In fact, I have to actually ask my friends and family - do you want to just vent or do you want solutions before they start talking to me about whatever problems they have. It sometimes feels like I have to physically flip a switch in order to function in the "care-giver" realm. </p><p>It's extra funny to me because I will give someone the shirt off my back or do whatever I can to help whomever needs it but it seems like organizing that is more of what I do than just be able to sit and put my arm around them. My Dad, oddly enough, is the same way. I remember one time I was not having the best of times in college, was living at home with him, and I was having an epic meltdown. I got ridiculously pissed off because my Dad offered me a root beer. I was sitting there, crying, and he wanted to give me a root beer. </p><p>The thing is, I understand this now. It's taken me 20+ years to understand what he was doing - he was trying to offer me comfort. He knew that I loved the IBC root beers, he had specifically gone and bought some for me and thought it would help. He was trying to comfort me. I just wasn't in a position to be comforted. Correction: I wasn't READY to be comforted. I wanted to let my emotions out, have a nice cry, maybe scream at the top of my lungs and then probably go to sleep and tackle whatever problems I was having in the morning. </p><p>It's taken me 45 years to realize that sometimes that's what I need. Now, I'm setting out and letting the world know that sometimes I need that. </p><p>Dad woke up about 20 minutes ago (he's back in bed now) and asked me if we should call the cardiologist about scheduling his catheter procedure. I told him no that they can't even do that until they get the holter results, which the office that did the holter is closed this entire week until Jan. 2nd. I have explained time and time again that we need that and can't get that done until they get back from their vacation. I know he's anxious, I know he's ready to have this done, I know he's losing hope by the comments he is now continuously making. But I can't make the machine move any faster. I have no control or power over it. The only thing I can do is say "Hey dad, fake a heart attack and let's get you to the hospital." But then I would have to deal with my Dad in the hospital and he doesn't want to go back to the hospital. He is deathly afraid of going to the hospital. I don't quite know what to do anymore... I feel like I'm spinning my wheels. I have my roadmap for what comes next, but next hasn't happened yet. And that's part of the problem. </p><p>Today, I'm going to work on switching my mindset. I don't know if I'll be able to, but I'm going to try. I'm going to attempt to flip that switch and be "fun Jess" but even that is exhausting. Let's see how it goes...</p>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403475696508024356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18006671.post-68299331317751818212023-12-18T16:19:00.003-05:002023-12-18T16:19:34.144-05:00Tip-toeing to the Bathroom<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin1yhw1WYtcLi8_WsKuioBODRacKlKSVrGY1B74g7jrvpksnSXZNrWhhGzfeLhLiWwgbfGBGsBWZIymwMkv0JLSaiE2b59NaSCxOb8YI9Q4_69emLtH_tdWGkvnNdtT1ldO_hPIbH5rxlzKKOjLjsCAKwGRuy3rQEMjizAhCK-sjt8qyshkHEn/s1200/Heh%20Heh%20Heh.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin1yhw1WYtcLi8_WsKuioBODRacKlKSVrGY1B74g7jrvpksnSXZNrWhhGzfeLhLiWwgbfGBGsBWZIymwMkv0JLSaiE2b59NaSCxOb8YI9Q4_69emLtH_tdWGkvnNdtT1ldO_hPIbH5rxlzKKOjLjsCAKwGRuy3rQEMjizAhCK-sjt8qyshkHEn/s320/Heh%20Heh%20Heh.png" width="213" /></a></div>When I was a kid I was constantly sneaking around. My Mom was immensely disapproving of a lot of stuff I did. It wasn't that I was a bad kid (seriously, I was on the academic team in high school, my friends were nerds, I didn't even try the lord's lettuce until I was in my late 30s. I was a GOOD kid.); I followed the rules, did what I was told, but I was just... Extra. Yeah, extra is a good term for it. <p></p><p>My Dad would usually get wind of whatever I was doing and be all like "Jessie, don't do that." My Mom, however, was more of the type to ground me for 6 weeks at a time. I'm not even kidding there- my entire 6th grade year was mostly spent grounded due to my Mom thinking I was a "bad" kid, not having the perfect grades that she wanted, thinking I was lying my ass off to her, and being "extra." It behooved me, at the time - especially since I was grounded, to learn how to sneak. </p><p>My Dad would mail me an allowance every couple of weeks and I would either pop the screen out of my window and head off to the comic book store (which I only did a few times because I was caught once and well, yeah... We won't go there.) or I would call up Domino's and order pizza to be specifically delivered to my bedroom window. Imagine, if you will, a 12 year old me, keeping an eye out for the delivery guy and whispering loudly "Hey dude, yo! Over here! The bedroom window!" </p><p>The one thing I never accounted for was what to do with the trash. It was one thing to sneak a pizza into the house but sneaking the trash directly past my mom and into the garage with the garbage? That was another fete entirely. </p><p>My Mom would always make the comment that she hoped that one day I had a child that was like me to deal with. I was always like "Yeah, well, I'm pretty awesome so why not?" Because I truly believe that I am awesome in my own unique way. I'm not full of myself, I just like myself. Well, most of the time anyway. </p><p>My mom would be pleased to know that I am now dealing with a grown-ass child that likes to sneak as much as I do. And, that grown-ass child also is about as good at getting away with shit as I was. I am talking about my own father. The man who pretty much let me get away with murder (metaphorically speaking) because my antics amused him to no end. </p><p>Sidebar: what the hell is up with the "maternal" figures (ie my mom and stepmom) thinking that I was some sort of horrible heathen that was hell bent on destroying the world in a demon-style way? Seriously! Did I mention that I didn't even try pot until I was in my late 30s? I don't even really drink! Like Da Fuq?! ANYWHO... I digress...</p><p>My Dad, who has been living with us since October (in case you missed that bit), needs some help with certain things. He needs help with bathing, getting dressed and we generally go with him to the bathroom because he's a fall risk and he treats his walker like his own personal formula one racecar since he isn't allowed to drive. He is constantly running it around the kitchen table, corners, giggling the whole way. EXCEPT at night.... when he's most at risk to fall because the faculties are definitely not there in the evening. </p><p>We set up a baby monitor so he could call and ask us for help at night (because for some reason he goes to the bathroom almost every single hour at night) and for a while there, he was playing along. But now... I'll hear the walker engage and him shuffling down the hallway to the bathroom. I get up and scold him, trying to explain that I don't want to find him passed out or worse on the floor and would prefer to be there to attempt to catch him if he starts to fall. </p><p>And that's when it hit me- I'm a parent all over again. First, it was the baby monitor with the whole waking up everytime I heard any kind of sound whether it be a grunt, snore, whathaveyou. Now, I wake up the minute I hear the click of his hand brakes being undone on his walker. I'm desperately trying to find a solution to him sneaking. I have made him aware of how it makes me feel but all he says is "well, I just don't want to wake you up." </p><p>Of course I'm like "Dude, I hear the noise and I wake up." I am THAT nervous as to condition. The latest cardiologist appointment was them telling him his heart function has significantly gone down. He doesn't eat all that much and doesn't have the brain capacity to really do much more than sit there staring at the walls, occasionally talking or telling a story. The man is not doing well. It sucks, but it's our reality and I keep chanting the mantra that I just want him happy and comfortable and I'm trying my best to maintain an outward cheerful appearance, but yeah... It's getting harder and harder and this morning... well, this morning, after being woken up about every single hour, I get up to let the dog out and my Dad gets up. </p><p>I'm down the hall, mere steps away from my bedroom, and my Dad announces "I'm going to the bathroom, Jess." I closed my eyes for the briefest of moments and walked back down the hall to where he's now getting out of bed and I give him probably one of the crankiest look I have ever given him. </p><p>"So, now you decide to tell me?" I was pissed. I've been trying to get him to let me know for WEEKS that he was getting up. Again, it's a safety thing - he trips over things, including his own walker, on his way to the bathroom. I try and walk behind him because I don't want him to fall, hit his head, end up in the hospital or worse. I was livid. It didn't help that I had a headache from hell simply because of not getting the best sleep going on several days now. (Normally, I have nighttime back up, but my backup is visiting family up north - which I'm not complaining about that at all.) <br /><br />My Dad says he doesn't want to bother me. I told him this afternoon that it would be more of a bother to plan a funeral during the holiday season than it would to take two minutes to follow him to the bathroom. I think that kind of hit home because he has been letting me know that he's going to the bathroom. We'll see if he keeps it up. </p><p><br /></p>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403475696508024356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18006671.post-30356139681020119282023-11-29T11:02:00.002-05:002023-11-29T11:02:33.517-05:00Tik...tok...tik...tok<p> We are in the middle of a holter test for my Dad. For those of you who don't know what that is, it's basically this little device that clips to his shirt with electrodes on them monitoring his heart throughout the day. My dad was up and down 11 times throughout the night last night. Mainly to the bathroom, but there were times he was wheezing or winded and while he would fall asleep he would wake back up so there was absolutely no restful sleep for him (or me and Ace, either). This morning he proceeds to tell me that he is "going to hell in a handbasket." Oh, what fun! I can see the new Christmas song in my head now! </p><p><i>Jingle bells, I'm going to hell,</i></p><p><i>Wheezing all the way!</i></p><p><i>Oh what fun it is to wear a holter all stinkin' day!</i></p><p>I am trying very hard to keep the mask on and I really want to just scream because every little thing bothers me to distraction and I can't concentrate on anything. I think I need some new happy pills because I don't want to pop off for no reason. I mean, I have reasons, but I don't want it to be my Dad scraping every last little bit of butterscotch pudding out of a snack pack to be what sets me off, ya know? It's not his fault that this is happening - his body is just giving out. But the biggest thing that bothers me? His need for me to either entertain him or talk with him every waking moment. I'm sorry, I don't want to nor do I have the mental capacity to entertain you. I can barely make it out of the house, let alone actually do something that I want to do without feeling annoyed or wanting to cry. In fact, today I've stacked multiple things that I have to do that I don't necessarily want to do and my Dad asked if he could go with me. I already told him that I just wanted to get it done and that it would be "faster if I just did it myself." I spend every waking moment with him, every moment that I'm in my room trying to sleep I have a baby monitor set up so I can hear if he needs me.... I am not in a mentally healthy situation. I have no breaks. I have no time for myself and I don't have any kind of escape. And unlike with my Mom, I don't have any family to give me a break. If it's not me with him, it's Kacy or Ace. Kacy takes the early morning, Ace taking the night shift, but I hear every night on the monitor when he gets up and I get up as well. I trust my tribe, I just don't trust my Dad. I also know that Ace is just as tired as I am, but Ace gets the privilege of sleeping for most of the day. The minute I walk out of my room, my personhood is not my own.</p><p>I know my Dad doesn't understand this, I also know he's grateful and thankful for the help. However, he is completely unaware at how much this whole thing has up-ended our day to day and he definitely doesn't understand the neuro-spicy component that is our family and the lack of communication is incredibly frustrating. </p><p>I'm going to make it a mission today to look into respite care. Maybe I can get Dad a weekend at a local facility for him to just kind of give us a hot minute. I need to not think about anything that is going on, shut my brain off, and ignore the world. Can I have that for Christmas? </p>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403475696508024356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18006671.post-69085078614889456282023-11-28T13:18:00.002-05:002023-11-28T13:18:32.657-05:00I'm trying today...<p> Yesterday, I was a frustrated Jess with a 15mg rocket of adderall up my ass combined with PMS, frustrated that my ADHD hyperfocus kept getting interrupted by my Dad wanting my attention (which I was actually trying to accomplish some work yesterday) and then just seeing my Dad have a bad day where he's trying desperately to catch his breath? Yeah, yesterday fucking sucked. I felt useless and horrible and annoyed. </p><p>Today, I'm embracing the fact that I cannot get anything accomplished and trying to just let it slide like I did all last week. My brain hates being in this state - I hate starting a task then being interrupted several times, but then my brain also says to itself: <i>you stupid bitch. Quit complaining. You should be enjoying this time you have with your dad. </i>My brain very much wants status quo. My brain also very much hates me right now and it is not very good to me. I am definitely in the depths of a depression and the biggest problem boils down to communication - rather, lack there of. </p><p>My Dad and I cannot communicate. He wants me in the room with him, to talk with him, at all hours of the day (and occasionally at night as well). My Dad has absolutely no entertainment and does not really watch TV by himself and cannot do the stuff he used to do to entertain himself (adventuring, restoring tractors, etc) because he gets too out of breath due to the CHF. My Dad needs supervision with pretty much everything he does because he's a fall risk. My Dad cannot drive. My Dad cannot do a whole bunch of stuff and is relying on me and my family for not just his entertainment, but also his well-being. My wife, kids and I are very much neuro-spicy and he is a neuro-typical guy living in a neuro-spicy world. He sees how Kacy, the kids and I communicate but he doesn't understand. No matter how many times we ask him to be direct with what he wants, it seems impossible for him to understand. This leads to frustrations on our end and I'm sure on his end too. </p><p>I have to spend the majority of my day trying to anticipate what it is he wants, when he wants it and then execute his wants/needs the moment that he wants/needs whatever or else he gets pissy. He tries to be patient and wait until I'm done with whatever it is I'm working on, but yesterday.... Yesterday, with that adderall rocket up my ass that sent me into hyper-focus (which I needed because I actually had some real estate stuff that absolutely needed to get done) and when the hyper-focus gets interrupted? Well, the bitch gets let out of the cage and I can get very very... ugly. </p><p>But TODAY... Today, I'm trying. I got up, did my hair, put on makeup, dressed in more than just sweatpants and a hoodie. I even accesorized today! There was even blow drying involved in the hair process! It's like "What?!?! Who is this person and what have you done with the woe is me, depressed Jess that we've gotten used to?" I am trying... I'm trying so hard today. I feel like I should print myself up a certificate of adulting or something. Ha!</p><p>In half an hour I'm taking my Dad to the cardiologist. More tests. He's in an okay mood, but my spidey sense is tingling and he made the comment that he feels like he's fighting for his life. That's not necessarily a comment you want to hear. And then, how does one even respond to that? I don't think you necessarily want to be like "You're doing a great job!" for that one. Then again... who knows? Ugh. </p><p>I honestly think, though, that I've had all the adulting I can handle for a little while and I'm going to attempt to flip the switch that turns off my humanity at least for a little while, so I can get through what I need to do. Oh, who the fuck am I kidding - I can't do that. I have tried turning off that switch to other people and all it does it end up biting me in the ass. Besides, while I totally understand some people can do that to their parents and other people, I cannot flip that switch on my Dad. I care very much about him and it crushes me every day seeing him either scared, or worried, or even just repeating the same conversation to the same three people he talks to every day. I have to accept that this is how it's going to be until the day he dies. Unless it gets worse. And then, I told him I was going to just hire him a hot nurse to give him sponge baths. He thought that was funny. </p><p><br /></p>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403475696508024356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18006671.post-6778394351226618402023-11-20T11:47:00.002-05:002023-11-20T11:47:30.912-05:00Let the Holiday Prep Commence<p>Kacy and I just started prepping our turkey. Once again, we are making the Puerto Rican turkey that my cousin Melissa introduced to the family, although this years bird is significantly smaller than previous years. Due to everything going on with my Dad, Casita, etc. we were only able to score a 16 pound bird as apparently all the larger birds headed north for the winter instead of south like the snowbirds. So, this 2023 Holiday Season will have a small turkey but great company despite the slow-ass drivers on the road. </p><p>My Dad is currently sitting in the carport, patiently waiting for the PT guy to show up. He spent the morning throwing up his rice krispies and if I'm being honest, he still looks a little ashy. He's definitely not feeling well, but he's trying. Yesterday he spent most of the day sitting there thinking he needed to go somewhere, feeling anxious and listless punctuated by naps lasting anywhere from ten minutes to an hour or so. I'm trying really hard not to spiral into thoughts of doom and gloom but it's hard. I'm in the headspace today that I'm gonna just keep trying. Today is a Dory kind of day. Meaning "just keep swimming, just keep swimming." Mmmmm.... Captain D's for lunch sounds damn tasty and yet that's not going to happen because it's in the complete opposite direction that I have to drive this afternoon. </p><p>I'll be leaving around 1:30 to head to my hair appointment in Orlando. I've decided to go back to blonde for a little while. I need a change of pace and I'm not really feeling the pink like I was. My mental health is in the shitter and the pink is just... well, right now it's not doing it for me. I need a change. I think a change will do me good. We'll add in the pink as I get better and feel more me. I was really hoping that Megan would be going with me (she was talking about wanting to get her hair colored) but she changed her mind. I am going to blame analysis paralysis on that one. It's all good. </p><p>My cousin started painting the casita this morning. The texturing looks really good and I am really happy with his work. Has it been slow? Yes. But it's looking good.</p><p>My brain has been drifting to my friend McKay. I miss her. I really do. I think I'm going to write her an email. I truly believe that she was just overwhelmed and she was sold a bill of goods that she was ashamed to fess up to. I know how that feels. I heard she got her architects stamp a couple of months back - I'm proud of her for that. I think I'll spend this morning putting my thoughts to paper and send her an actual letter letter. That seems like the proper thing to do. </p><p>I'm truly all over the place - an ADHD ferret on crack. My moods are going from one side to another. I am looking forward to the holidays, I'm ready for this year to be over. It's time for something fresh. I'm ready to start over. </p><p><br /></p>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403475696508024356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18006671.post-37499954410262956932023-11-18T16:18:00.001-05:002023-11-18T16:18:16.982-05:00A few good days<p> Thanksgiving is next week and I feel like I have a lot to be thankful for. My Dad is doing really well and we've had a streak of really good days, the casita is coming along quite nicely and we'll be ready to paint hopefully starting on Monday. Next week will be busy for sure, but hopefully everything will go smoothly. </p><p>The biggest thing I am grateful for is that my Dad is doing better. This is actually quite surprising because I didn't think he was going to make it to Thanksgiving. That's how bad things have been. There is always a chance that things can turn south, or he can pass in his sleep one night, but I think I've turned a page in my brain that has put me more at ease with everything. At least that's what I like to tell myself. If you think about it, anyone can die at any time. I could be hit by a bus tomorrow, and my Dad could pass quietly in his sleep. There's nothing that anyone can do about it. When it's your time to go it's your time to go. I know I've been chanting the mantra happy and comfortable but I don't know if I really believed that mantra. Every night, I tuck my dad into bed, give him a kiss on the cheek and say "Goodnight!" There is still a certain amount of fear when I go to bed - I don't think my anxiety will allow me to do that, for now that's just something that I have to live with. I have to get to full acceptance and I don't know how or when that will be. </p><p>For now, I'll be content sitting outside on the back lanai, chatting with my Dad, listening to him tell stories and be happy and proud of the casita and everything that we are doing to make him happy and comfortable. And that's what we need to do - it's the only thing we can do. </p><p><br /></p>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403475696508024356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18006671.post-28507317865220898252023-11-16T11:57:00.002-05:002023-11-16T11:57:37.831-05:00It's just the way things are.<p> I was a young parent. I had my first kid at 21 years old. In fact, I didn't even really celebrate my own 21st birthday. I lived vicariously through my friend Mickie and proceeded to get her drunk rather than getting my very pregnant self drunk at the time. See, I had a modicum of responsibility! When my oldest was born, though, I was bound and determined not to be the same type of mother that I had. </p><p>Growing up I was told by my mom (several times) that I had a "mommy that screamed." I never understood why. I would get yelled at, screamed at, demands of perfection at all times. I, now knowing that I was 100% ADHD with a side of autism, would give as good as I would get. The screaming matches between myself and my Mom were legendary. I wanted to break that cycle with my own kid(s). I know I'm not the only one out there that says they're going to raise their kids differently. Somehow, though, I got into the same cycle. </p><p>I demanded the same perfection from my own kid that I was unable to give my parents. I followed my Mom's ruleset, would ground my kid for weeks on end for the smallest transgression, not realizing that what I was doing was horrifically mentally traumatic. It wasn't until a few years ago that I started therapy and began to realize that what I had grown up with was NOT normal. It wasn't until a few years ago that I began to realize that I actually was not a piece of crap person and that boundaries were a good thing. It wasn't until a few years ago that I actually apologized to my oldest for the crap that I had put them through and we are now trying to legitimately fix that relationship and heal what I now know is generational trauma. </p><p>I realized something was very very wrong when my oldest was around 16 years old. They would tell me that they wanted to be an artist, which we supported that goal, but then they started failing at the one class I expected them to pass- art. It was when our then 7 year old yelled at the the oldest "What are you going to do with your life?!" after a particularly heated argument between my wife, myself and our oldest, that I realized and very much felt that I was doing something very very wrong as far as how I was raising my children. </p><p>That's when we went about starting to change things. It was slow going at first, for sure. But as they get older, I notice that all three of our kids not only set boundaries, but they are also kind and generous and are not afraid to argue their point. This doesn't mean that we're constantly having fights in our house. In fact, our house is pretty harmonious (knock on invisible cheese fries). Even our oldest, who still lives with us at 24 (they are very autistic and mentally around the age of a 16 year old), is helpful, kind and really quite sweet. </p><p>Our middle child is in advanced classes and will graduate with an associates degree in computer sciences when they graduate a few short years (they're a sophomore now) and our youngest is in the gifted program at their school and has been talking about becoming an animator for a couple of years now and has been building their portfolio since the age of 6. </p><p>We do everything that we can to encourage and gently parent them - we don't really yell, we do direct as necessary, but for the most part they all self-manage with occasional reminders to brush their teeth, etc. They all get themselves up and ready for school, maintain their grades, and the biggest thing? We trust them. We allow them to make decisions for themselves and for the most part they are pretty happy and healthy. If we have any kind of conflicts, we talk them out. Sometimes, as their parent, I do have to intervene and say "No, this is how it's going to be. End of discussion." And that's the end of it. BUT if they come to us with a decent reason for doing what they're doing or if they have some sort of issue - we will hear them out and generally back them up 100%. </p><p>I don't want to be a "mommy that screams." I don't like conflict. At the same time, I know that I am their parent and not their friend. My job is to guide them and encourage them, but not discount or diminish them as people. Just because I don't like something they do (for example, my son has been growing out his hair since junior high and it's fairly long now and wish he would cut it, but it's not my hair - it's his), doesn't mean that it's my call to tell them how to be. They know to be polite, but they don't have to necessarily respect someone just because they are in a position of authority or older than them. They will go out of their way to assist their grandpa who lives with us, they know when either myself or their mom is having a tough day and try and help out as best they can, they are kind and generous. I couldn't ask for better kids. I am also incredibly proud at the boundaries they put up and the fact that they do not take any crap from anyone. There are times when I wish that I had the brains they did in order to be able to say no and put up better boundaries. I'm getting better at it, but I feel like I am no where near as capable as they are. </p><p>I have said it before and I will keep saying it because I don't think I could possibly express exactly how proud I am of my kids. They're all growing up becoming incredibly people. I can't wait to see where they go. </p>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403475696508024356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18006671.post-19582439787179467942023-11-08T07:41:00.001-05:002023-11-08T07:41:42.558-05:00Saving Daylight<p> My body is still al discombobulated because of daylight savings time. It's been weird- I've been going to bed around 9:00-9:30pm and waking up around 7am. There are, of course, the nighttime wake-up calls from Dad that I hear on the monitors. Ace has been getting up with him and taking the night shift, but since my Dad got home from the hospital over the weekend, I've had it on as backup, and also because I've had this uneasy feeling that everything is not okay. If I had my druthers (there's a southern saying for ya), I would have had him stay in the hospital at least a few more days but I honestly don't think it would do any good. My Dad doesn't want to die in a hospital, anyway. He's made that abundantly clear. </p><p>Since yesterday he has been wheezing. We saw the pulmonologist who didn't seemed concerned, but he was also a bit of a dick and seemed to steamroll everything. He was very much acting like the doctors at the hospital didn't know what they were doing. Granted, they kept saying my Dad was diabetic at the hospital and he's not. I have no idea where that idea came from. It's a mystery. The thing that we are concerned about is the fact his heart rate was high again yesterday, but then would come down, and then his BP was all over the place. </p><p>I'm trying to just let the universe do it's thing, and I'd be lying if I said that I'm okay with the universe just doing it's thing. I don't want my Dad gone by any stretch of the imagination but I do, however, want him to be at peace. There is no peace currently. </p><p>So, what do I do? Do I fight for hospice- which my Dad doesn't even want to admit that's where we are? Or do I keep maintaining <i>his</i> status quo of going to the doctor, going to the hospital, bed, chair, outside for a short time for some sun, back inside, him calling for someone every half hour to an hour (depending if he's entertained by a book or not) or do I admit to him the one thing that I am more afraid of saying out loud to his face because I don't want to hurt or scare him? Do I actually say the words: "Dad, you're dying. You're not going to recover from this. You're getting worse and worse every day. I want you to be comfortable." </p><p>Why is that so hard? It's not like I'm shouting it at him. I honestly don't know what to do - keep ignoring when he says he doesn't think he's getting better and being annoyed at the doctors for not figuring out what's going on or do I actually try and have that conversation? I am so scared of having that conversation. </p>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403475696508024356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18006671.post-1593342283182493892023-11-06T12:11:00.003-05:002023-11-06T12:11:12.719-05:0010mg of uninterrupted rambling. <p>"I'm fairly sure I'm doing a good job at accomplishing the one thing I wanted to try and accomplish today." This is what I said to Kacy when I sat back down after showing her a TikTok that made me giggle. </p><p>Kacy gave me a look and then proceeded to ask me: "And what's that?" </p><p>"Absolutely nothing," I answered with as straight a face as I could manage. Kacy began laughing and I looked down at the list of things I had written down that I actually wanted to accomplish today. The day is still young but I have absolutely no get up and go. I don't know if I should blame daylight savings time (which just means I'm still waking up with it being pitch black outside and my kids are still waiting for their bus in darkness, too,) or the fact that every day is the same thing for me. </p><p>I can't purposely accomplish nothing. It's hard for me not to be in a constant state of go-go-go. The past few months I have been in what feels like a holding pattern and I can't figure out how to get out of it. There are times when I feel like I'm beginning to start adding agoraphobia to my growing list of mental illnesses. Oh, hello, Anxiety! How are you today? Going strong? Fuck yeah! What's that, you don't want to let me leave the house because you're afraid something might happen to your Dad if you leave the house? God forbid you leave the house with your wife, whom you could totally use a date night with. </p><p>I've also noticed that my Dad is fairly anxious. He has gotten to the point where he's picking at his skin, opening sores. He says he's itchy. He's very very itchy. He also stims by constantly tapping his feet, especially if people are over. Maybe it's time for my Dad to get on some happy pills too? Hmmmmm.... Things to discuss with his doctor. I know that my Mom was on antidepressants when her time was coming. So maybe that's something that can be discussed with the doctor. </p><p>For me, I think I may have found the root of why I get so angry and frustrated. My fuse is hella short. I'm aware of that and I don't like it. I try taking a moment, but I can't take a moment because of my AuDHD and I will get hyper fixated on finishing a task before I allow myself to actually have a moment, thus leading to the wonderful ADHD rage. Ah, therapy and introspection! Such a wonderful thing for people to do - I'm not even kidding there. ANYWHO.... why I get angry and frustrated. </p><p>For starters, anyone who knows me knows that I'm as subtle as a sledgehammer. I wear my emotions on my sleeve and if I'm unhappy you're going to know about it. For many years there, I kept all that down. I remember my Dad telling me that I should just keep my mouth shut and head down whenever something irritated me. For the most part I did, but you'd know if I wasn't happy about something. I wouldn't necessarily be rude about it but I would definitely get cranky. </p><p>Lately, I have been a very cranky person. I am fully aware of that and have been doing a lot of apologizing to people. I have had a lot on my plate, though. I know I'm repeating myself there. But at the same time, I feel so completely unaccomplished. I have absolutely no head for work and I feel like I'm letting my customers, clients, bosses and family down because I don't have the head for work. At least once or twice an hour my Dad needs my assistance with something - he is getting weaker and is more of a fall risk and I still am dealing with actually remembering how my granny passed. I see so many similarities between my Dad and my grandparents. How similar my dad walks with his walker to how granny would trek from her chair to the bathroom and back. I see the similarities in my Dad's breathing and lung capacity getting weaker and his chest looking so similar to my grandpa's toward the end. Both he and my grandpa sitting outside in the sun, bare-chested. It's almost as if my Dad feels like if he can soak up the sun he will be 40 again. </p><p>I'm angry I can't do anything about my Dad and making him feel better. I can't fix him. I'm angry at the fact that I have to devote all my energy to him. I'm angry that I feel that way because I love my Dad and he is such a huge part of my world and I shouldn't be angry that he can't take care of himself. I really think that I'm angry I can't do more. </p><p>I can't do anymore than I already am and I'm incredibly angry at myself for that. I can hear the expectations that I set for myself and not being able to meet them. Am I actually realizing my limitations? I told myself that I wasn't going to do any "work" (Real Estate) until November. Now, I'm looking down the barrel of November, coming to the realization that mentally I'm completely tapped out and probably don't have the mental capacity to actually do anything productive as far as work work is concerned until the beginning of the new year - and that's assuming that my Dad makes it that long. If he doesn't, the truth of the matter is that I'll be untangling his estate for several months to say the least. </p><p>Shit, I'm exhausted just writing about it. The worst part? When I do get out of the house, all I can think is "what if something happens and I'm not there?" Y'all know how much I love to get out of the house... or at least I used to. Now I put in an appearance here and there to get the social cup filled. Friends will come to the house but I feel like I can't leave the house. </p><p>Now, try not to show how upset you are to the one person you are trying to make comfortable and happy and feel so loved. It's called masking and I have a hard time with it. There was a time that I could do it. I can throw it on in public and be all "sunshine and rainbows." (It's one of my favorite things to say.) For the past year, though, that mask has started falling off and it's gotten to the point now where I'm like baseball- three strikes and you're out. I'm not longer holding back if something doesn't sound right to me. My spidey sense is tingling? I'm listening and I'll tell you about it. If something bothers me, I'm starting to very much tell people. </p><p>But I can't tell that to my Dad. I can't be honest with him. And that's why I think I've become this angry person with such an incredibly short fuse. I don't want to hurt his feelings and for the most part he can't understand or doesn't remember what's going on. Why would I want to hurt him like that? I don't want him to know that I'm upset with the fact that I can't fix him. </p><p>When he sits there and says "I don't know what's wrong with me," I bite my tongue and stay silent. I don't answer back "we know what's wrong. You're body is giving out." </p><p>So, I sit silently. It eats away at me. It leads me to lash out at others over the smallest perceived slight. I have gone back a younger version of myself meaning I have absolutely no filter. The only difference is now I'm much more sarcastic and biting. I'm getting angrier by the day and it's harder for me to keep quiet. I hate feeling that way. I hate being angry. I don't like me when I'm angry. I know I can be an incredibly hateful bitch when I'm REALLY angry. I am trying not to get back there... but how do you stop it from happening? </p><p>Guess I'll have to talk with my therapist about that one.</p>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403475696508024356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18006671.post-87300298143278076622023-11-05T12:29:00.001-05:002023-11-05T12:29:10.816-05:00Grumble grumble<p> Mornings and I do not agree with each other. On any normal day, I have a routine: get up, shower, get ready for the day (dressed, make-up if I'm so feeling inclined, etc). Then, kitchen - some form of breakfast maybe, definitely caffeine, meds, vitamins, and while I'm doing that I like to kind of get a hold of what's going on in the world, maybe watch some tiktoks, basically allow my brain the time it needs to turn on and be a functioning, most of the time smiling, human being. Since mid-August, my routine and self-care has gone to hell. </p><p>Now, in a normally functioning human, they could probably pivot quite easily. Me? Yeah, the AuDHD doesn't like to pivot without medicinal help, and the fact that I have no medicinal help at the moment because I still need to do a blood test to find out what's going on with my heart and my blood pressure when I'm on Adderall? Yeahhhhh.... No medication means I'm extra extra all over the place and my mood changes on a dime. I try really hard most days to put on a happy face, but there are some days (and I feel like it's a lot of days lately) that not even the fluoxetine that I'm on is having that great of an effect. I'm cranky, I'm annoyed, and I feel like if I'm going to be cranky and annoyed, which affects my blood pressure in the negative anyway, I might as well be productive, right? Who am I kidding - I'm not going to. I don't have the headspace to be productive these days. Everything is auto-pilot for me. </p><p>From the minute I walk out of my bedroom in the morning, I don't seem to have any time for myself anymore. This blog? I have sat down four times to write, each time being interrupted by my Dad, wanting to go to the bathroom, wanting to go for a walk, wanting a blanket, wanting his computer, wanting his phone... any number of things that completely don't have anything to do with any kind of self-care for myself. This blog has been my only outlet and much like it's name- I'm barely keeping up. </p><p>I'm frustrated, I'm tired, I want to have some fun. I want to get out of the house but every time I do, I get anxious because I'm worried about leaving my Dad at home. I can't leave the house with Kacy because an adult has to be here at all times and as much as I do trust my tribe, I know the other adult in the house is not that observant and could not handle it if my Dad fell or something else happened. </p><p>My Dad keeps talking about walking unassisted, but someone has to be by his side at all times. He barely has any balance, he is to the point where he doesn't even want to wear pants if not necessary. I, personally, have no problem with him not wearing pants at all- that's not the point. The point is he thinks that he can do all of these things that any normal, healthy person should be able to do and he doesn't understand that he can't. He doesn't understand that his body is giving out. He doesn't understand that we have to help him. </p><p>Halloween sucked, we didn't get to do anything fun like we normally do. We didn't even do our traditional trip out to get pizza. I see the holidays coming down the pipeline and Kacy and I always have one day where we take a day and go shopping, out to dinner and have fun with each other and I don't see how I'm going to be able to relax enough to be able to do that either. I'm trying to chant the mantra "happy and comfortable" and while I know that my Dad's every need is taken care of, I know that mine are going far by the wayside and it's really starting to impact my everyday life. I can feel myself resenting the situation we are in but at the same time I wouldn't change it because I know it's important to my Dad and he is comfortable and happy and taken care of. But how do I take care of me? That's what I don't know... </p><p><br /></p>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08403475696508024356noreply@blogger.com0