I feel complaining about insignificant things and labeling them “FWP” exonerates me from being a whiny spoiled person living in the best place in the world. I’m also a jaded ex-catholic, so there is already a layer of guilt underneath everything I say and do.
I want to post this for another reason. With the hell I’ve been going through for the past year from medication side effects, divorce, being ostracized by my children and doing all of this in a delicate mental condition, I welcome superficial trivial problems.
Here is one now:
Well, so far this is a very good day! I colored my hair this week from an online hair color boasting it is just like the professional color. I don’t know why I bother. The brown of my hair turned out beautifully but the white came out a light brownish reddish. Anyway……I used the last of my root concealer two days ago (forgot all about covering my roots on Tuesday and was out doing errands for four hours). Luckily I wasn’t aware so had all of the confidence of a good looking person. Back to my roots (pardon the pun) I was even debating wearing one of Allison’s hats to hit the Walgreens early before too many people were there to get a new can of concealer. In the bathroom I took one more last ditch effort, fingers crossed, to look in the bathroom closet. There it was buried under cold medicine…..half a can!!! Halejuha!
Dear Life: please keep bringing on those kind of problems. I really need a break. xoxo
My mom was diagnosed with terminal ovarian cancer today and I want to rewind time to last Saturday when life was trivial.
We have had rocky times especially in the last fifteen years or so. When I talk to her now in between her dementia and pain she is the sweet, funny, smart mother that she often wasn’t. I am grateful that I can at least get that mother now. Of course, that is what makes it even more poignant.
All that wasted time.
When I talk to my dad it feels like he is trying to protect me from the truth. I know he knows what it may be, but says it’s not smart to speculate, so he doesn’t tell me. He must understand how impossible it is for the human brain not to speculate when only given bits and pieces of information, not enough to form a complete picture. I know he is speculating, against his will, but he is speculating.
We were supposed to know last Tuesday and then on Thursday. All I have to rely on are quick cryptic text messages from my dad as the information trickles in from the medical professionals. In the meantime we are all looking up symptoms on WebMD and the Mayo Clinic website. Speculating.
Friday she ended up in the hospital, but was released and is now convalescing on my dad’s couch.
Monday. That is the day the labs come back.
Scared? Sad? My head is spinning, maybe I am just stunned. My mother used to be as strong as a horse physically. I never thought of her as old. My dad said he used to refer to her as an ant, carrying more than her body weight. Now she is so small and thin. Her hair is snow white and her skin is almost see through.
Our relationship has always been quite on and off. I had an old post that said how much it hurt when she stopped sending me birthday cards, but lately she has been trying so, of course, I welcomed her back with open arms.
I’m afraid she may have waited too long to come back and now she’ll be gone again.
Pretty average day today.
My new “Four Day Diet” book arrived in the mail. I started to read it, then skimmed through the fluff and got right down to the diet menus. I was typing out a shopping list, but couldn’t read the computer with my reading glasses on and couldn’t read the book without the readers! Tried to wear them halfway down my nose, but then I couldn’t breath. Taking them on and off again was pulling my hair. It took me at least half an hour longer to do this task than it should have (similar to telling this story).
Allison is sick today so I kept her company by watching “Pretty Little Liars” with her. Not that watching it wasn’t bad enough, she kept pausing the show every few minutes to explain the characters and plot to me.
Went to the grocery store and put three yogurts into a strange man’s basket even though he was saying, “Excuse, me. Excuse, me!”
I finally looked up and saw it was not my husband after all, just a doppelganger (bet you don’t know the last time you’ve used that term).
Got home, unloaded the car and dropped a jar of Ragu in the driveway.
Yeah, that’s about it.
My son, unfortunately, falls into the category of being “unintuitive”. He is sensitive, but things have to be pointed out to him. There is nothing wrong with it as long as the female in his life doesn’t mind either.
When my friend died last week it hit me pretty hard. After visiting her and her family that day I came home and holed up in my room with some wine and my phone. I was feeling a little sorry for myself because Emily and my sister Ellen weren’t there. They are always there for me, but they weren’t physically there and I really could have used them. I told Emily on the phone that I really needed a hug.
I didn’t realize until I heard a text buzz that Tristan was charging his phone in my room. I instinctively looked over and read that it was from Emily. She wrote “go in and give mom a hug, she really needs one”.
Just then, Tristan came in and got his phone. I wondered how long it would take him to come back after reading his texts.
Ten minutes went by when Tristan knocked. He came in and sat in bed with me. He asked me to tell him what happened that day. I told him everything. He held my hand and then gave me a hug.
I hope I’ve always given them what they needed the way they just gave me what I needed.
Christmas is approaching. That’s when the old family hurts and feelings start to poke through the facade. Each year I wonder if it is easier to smile and ignore the past? So far it has been, but this year my skin feels a little thinner.
It begins when I start addressing Christmas cards. There are a few years here and there I haven’t had the mental strength to send them out and until now I haven’t realized why.
I tend to contemplate each relationship as I write the name and address on the envelope. I breeze through the names of my closest family members and friends, but then I inevitably have to write the names of those who have hurt me. I start remembering events where I felt like an outsider, feeling misunderstood and just being downright mistreated.
And more hurtful than those names I write is the one I don’t, my mother’s. Oh, my mother is alive and well. Physically that is. To be kind, she is a little “off” mentally. I don’t think this apple fell too far from the tree. The difference is I am well and she refuses to be. Therefore, with whatever mental illness she suffers from she thinks she is better off without me. I miss her. I’ve missed her for decades although it’s been only a year since I’ve seen her.
The biggest hurt was when she stopped sending me birthday cards. That cut deep. It’s been years and I still can’t come to terms with it. We each have our breaking point. That is mine.
During this last year I have been tempted to contact her because, well I still miss her. The idea will come and I will make a plan to call her. Then the opportunity arises and I put it off. Then I put it off again. Next thing I know a week has gone by. I know why I don’t call, I fear the rejection.
I could go on and on about my mine and my mother’s history together, but I really don’t want to. I’m tired of it all. Well, exhausted actually, otherwise I would dial her number again.
I don’t feel so upbeat anymore. It doesn’t feel chemical, it feels more environmental. I have a lot on my mind right now.
Allison in puberty…puberty or a miniature version of me? I’m trying not to be ultra sensitive to her mood swings. Crying, fits of anger. It feels all too familiar and it is wearing on me. How should I handle it?
Dying friend, do I really have to say more? Sending a funny card once a week feels lame.
John’s got some health problems. Threats and self help strategies just don’t seem to be making a dent.
In the old days I would freak out for a few days, contemplate for another few and then act without any thought. I would get it done. These days I am so “normal” that I’m drowning in a whirlpool of practicality and cowardice. What the “old” me would do would have been brave and brilliant. Now I am a dud, dead in the water… a wet blanket. Feeling betrayed by my life in a different way.
I must knock myself free of the drug addled normalcy I am living. This just doesn’t get any easier does it?