I wasn’t seriously planning on waking up and finding my world in upheaval again, however, there it is, a mess. My father’s body decided it hadn’t seen the inside of a hospital for awhile… he fell and injured himself badly. I guess in the grand scheme that is not the worst, but my Negadiva is working full strength to see the worst of everything again. When my negadiva is turned on, nothing works right. I wasn’t too sure for a bit earlier today I wasn’t actually having a heart attack.
Now negadiva has been put to rest and I’m in classic “no one is listening to my recent expertise gained in these matters” mode. I made my mom (step) cry, not on purpose, all I want to do is help her. Dad is being cared for, he is in the best place possible, she is the one doing all the work. Mom has been caring for people since she was 19 years old and took on five children from her husbands first marriage, then proceded to have two more. Now she is caring for dad almost by herself. That is what makes me frustrated, six living children and we are impotent to fix this. Mostly because dad is so damned stubborn.
My MIL (mother-in-law) tried to care for her father at the end of his life and the man she loved without reservation was gone and she couldn’t continue with the care. She told me then that a daughter caring for a father should not happen, ever. She was devastated and the least of the problems were physical. I cared for my grandmother and my mother, I told my other mom today, to call my baby brother and get him down there. Mom will do only what dad tells her and even in the hospital if he says, “no don’t bother the boys,” she won’t. Picture me banging my head against the nearest wall.
The last thing that makes head banging a pleasurable thought, is that many people in that side of the family truly believe that asking for help means the government getting in your business. I can’t imagine what the hell the government would care about, but then again, thinking about the mess our government is in, you never know. If for some reason dad and mom get taxed for their woodstove or taxed because toilets flushes too much or some damn goofy thing, I will get blamed. I am the one who made the first call to get mom help. When she was asking me questions trying to fit them in the best category, I had to tell her this isn’t going to go over well. She was shocked, the social worker, over one thing I specifically asked if this would be a problem and I said, “how do you spell paranoid?” She actually tried to spell it, I said no and spelled out my dads surname. Then she laughed. Notice that I’m even not telling you what that “thing” was because we have been told since babyhood, don’t let anyone know your business.
Here I sit feeling like the worst kind of daughter in the whole world because I have this need to run the show. I love my stepmother as much as I loved my biological mother, frankly even a bit more. I was a very messed up kid, but as an adult, the second my own children were born, was when black and white became shades of the rainbow. For every thing I did and every scene I caused, my stepmother forgave me more than my bio parents did. I said to a friend once, “when it is my stepmother’s time to pass on, she will go straight to the Goddess and sit by Her side with a tiara and a beer.”