Greetings from Florida

This isn't going to be a good post.  It isn't going to be a nice post.  It isn't going to be one of those mantra-chanting-happy-and-healthy posts.  This is going to be a down-and-dirty look into my current mental health.  I'm not looking for "You're doing so well!" I'm not looking for any kind of kadoo's.  I am sick and tired of reading the "you're such a good daughter" posts.   I hate those anyway because I feel like they put me on a pedestal that I don't deserve.  Or who knows, after seeing all the elderly people in the nursing facility who looked abandoned by their family (or were otherwise under the whole "get your nice clothes on, we're gonna go see grandma today! And you better behave!" treatment from the people who should be taking care of their elders to begin with. 

My family is amazing. I'm not even kidding.  Ace and Kacy have been taking the bulk of the evenings and mornings and I take the day shift as far as dealing with dad is concerned.  Everyone is pulling their weight, as they should be.  I know they are under as much stress as I am and we are just trying to continue on our merry way, but holy hot damn.... I am not meant to be a caregiver.  I am meant to be a problem solver.  I am meant for people to tell me there is a problem and I come up with some way to fix the problem.  I can't fix this problem though.  And it's not a problem, it's my Dad.  I can't fix my Dad.  The problem?  His body is giving out.  It's this slow, horrible process in which my Dad looks at me and says "I don't know what's going on," and where I would normally come up with some snarky way of saying "You're dying, Dad!" I can't even admit that to him.  

Every night I go to bed and it's harder and harder for me to fall asleep.  Every morning I wake up and it's harder and harder for me to leave the bedroom to face another day of trying to make my dad as comfortable as possible.  Today is an exceptionally hard day, too.  I'm angry at the doctor for waking me up yesterday and telling me that I had to get my Dad's antibiotic (because now we're also dealing with pneumonia) and then they didn't call it in, even though I called them several times to find out wtf was going on.  (It was finally called in this morning and I have already picked it up.) My brain is in full on catastrophizing mode and I'm sitting here just waiting for the other shoe to drop.  

The worst part?  I can't even talk to my Dad about how I feel because how the hell does he feel?  I feel selfish for even wanting to talk to him about how I'm feeling.  I'm sitting here, with a front row seat to his death.  I have a hard time going to sleep at night because I feel like I'll wake up and he'll be dead and he would be dying by himself.  I don't feel like I can leave his side (or at least not go anywhere too far away - walmart included) because I don't want him to die by himself.  Even though I know for a fact that there will at least be one adult in the house if it happens here, I am under the firm impression that shepherding him through this transition is my responsibility.  I'm the only child.  I'm the one that has to take care of everything.  This is my job.  

Where the fuck does taking on that responsibility come from?  Seriously!  And the even bigger question:  why can't I seem to be able to opt out of any of this?  At any given moment, I can take my Dad to a hospital and say "Here, deal with him."  Okay, so I know that's not how it would be by any stretch of the imagination.  BUT I do know that I could do it.  I could take him to a hospital, they could admit him and then I have this fantasy where it would be out of sight out of mind - I could go back to my daily life, just going to visit my Dad at the hospital or where ever whenever time allowed.  I could be a normal, every day average shmuck that doesn't give a crap about their parent(s).  But wait! I can't do that!  This is me after all!  Leaving my Dad in a hospital would not be a good thing to do.  Leaving my Dad in a hospital would just mean that I come home and sleep in my bed every night, the same way I do now.  Could I turn my brain off?  Maybe. Probably not.  It would be the same old thing, different location and I know my Dad would not be better off in a hospital than he would be here at home.  

So, I'm going to suck it up.  I'm going to keep doing what I'm doing and acknowledge the fact that I'm heading for a full on meltdown.  I will be grateful for the xanax that my psychiatrist is prescribing me and do what Dory does - just keep swimming.   

If anyone has a punching bag I can borrow, though, that would be swell.