Robin calls while I am in my second meeting of the day. Tells me Dr. Madre is leaving the country today but has my chart with him and will call me while he travels. Expect a call before lunch.
HIPAA, Schmipaa, I guess. So much for keeping my health information under lock and key. Our friends in the Transportation Safety Administration and perhaps everyone at the X-Ray machine will be privy to my ovarian woes by lunch time.
But this is no time to be bashful about my tender little girly parts. I am on a mission.
I get the feeling she thinks I think she made more of the situation than necessary. Or maybe Dr. Madre thinks that. A mountain out of a mole hill. A tempest in a tea cup. Ran around screaming that the sky is falling.
No. I think the opposite. I think what passes as a routine occurrence in Robin's world really is a Big Fat Deal in mine and that I have a right to be upset. It is my uterus, cervix and ovaries on the bullseye. Am I not a dream patient? Taking ownership and responsibility for my health? Isn't an informed consumer better than one that you can't be sure is informed enough to provide informed consent for anything?
Hours go by and no word from Dr. Madre. I have convinced myself that he forgot all about me and boarded his plane and now it has taken off and he's realized that he stowed my chart in his checked suitcase and he can't get it until he lands on the other side of the planet. Or he gets no phone service over the Atlantic. Or he just forgot altogether.
I call Robin later in the afternoon. She assures me that Dr. Madre is still in the country, and apologizes for the delay. He is not departing until tonight but is in clinicals all day in an outlying office. She gives me the low down on how to reach him and who to ask for that will get him on the phone. Robin knows the ropes.
I am relieved to the point of crying when I get him on the phone. He tells me he thinks that Robin may not have done a great job explaining. I told him she explained just fine what she was comfortable explaining with without him being there, in my opinion, but I am one of THOSE patients. I need details. Information. Titles. I want to know the names of things and the rationale for what he wants to do. Robin could in no way answer my questions. Not her fault. But now that I have you...
"Liza, I know this about you," he says. "There are some cells I think may be the cause of your abnormal lab results. I want to make sure we stay on top of things. You can come see me every three months so I can look to see where they are going or you can have the blahblahblah procedure and be done with it in one shot."
"OK but you scared me when you said that you wanted me back every 3 months. What happened to 6?"
"Liza, you are a very compliant patient. Any other patient I would tell to get the blahblahblah procedure because I may never see them again. But you take care of yourself and I know you'll be back, so if you want to do something less invasive until we know more, I know you are not going to vanish and never return and maybe put yourself at risk."
I ask about the procedure. It sounds heinous but he says he'll lidocaine me to the hilt before hand. He says then I never have to think about it again.
I ask about the one part of the last test that he'd been concerned about. He tells me if that is not resolved, then he'll take care of that with the blahblahblah procedure too. Everything else is fine. Great results. No other worries.
I tell him I want the blahblahblah thing. I want it taken care of now and forever. I remind him that he knows what I worry about.
"Yes I know what you worry about. Liza, you do not have Cancer. You are not going to develop Cancer while I am in Africa. I know your concerns. Your children have nothing to worry about. Their mother is not going anywhere."
I absolutely love this man for having been listening all along last time.
I tell him I will call Robin and schedule myself for the week he returns. I wish him much success on his mission. I hang up. I close my door. And then I really cry. But only out of sheer relief.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
It's My Uterus and I'll Cry If I Want To
I finish the day in a bit of a fog. Abnormal cells. Is that code for Cancer? If I have Cancer someone is going to have to say that word. And not whisper it like they did in St. Elmo's Fire. I am reminded of my mother's hysterectomy because of "pre-cancer." Pre-cancer. What a crock. All that is is cancer that has not spread. That doesn't mean you don't have Cancer! It just sounds like you don't! No one forfeits at uterus for something minor!
On my way home I go to call Scott and realize that my colleague has left me a message checking in on my health and sanity. Both of which are in a little trouble evidently. I call her back. She commutes with another colleague that I absolutely adore. I catch them both up on the outcome of my conversation with Robin. They are both equally troubled and encourage me to take matters into my own hands.
I talk to Scott about it briefly as I cross the bridge. But just hearing his voice makes me want to cry. And if I cry I won't have to worry about Cancer because I will drive off the bridge to my certain death. One more way to skin that cat.
I call Charlotte and boo hoo a bit before collecting her advice.
At no time am I even remotely compelled to call my mother. Not for a moment.
But those I do tell agree that:
Dr. Madre's medical mission is not my problem and not reason enough to wait to hear about my choices.
While I appreciate Dr. Madre's devotion and concern, I am sure there is another doctor competent to read my chart and test results and explain my choices.
I need to know more now, because I am really no good at all at waiting around.
If someone has Cancer, I need to hear the words "We found Cancer." and nothing less definitive than that.
I try to sleep that night, my worst fears potentially coming to life. I do not have the luxury of worrying only about me. I have children. And need to stay alive so they aren't stuck being raised by their lunatic father.
At 6 am I get out of bed, make coffee and dial Robin's number by heart.
"Robin, it's Liza, Dr. Madre's patient. Before you call me back, I'd like to ask you a favor. If Dr. Madre has not left the country, I'd like to speak with him directly about his findings and my options before he leaves. If he has left, I'd like to speak to whatever doctor is following Dr. Madre's cases while he is away and begin my treatment immediately. If something is wrong, I want to begin treatment at once, not when Dr. Madre's medical mission has concluded. I don't think that is unreasonable. I hope you agree."
I hang up, sip my coffee and cry. Just a little.
On my way home I go to call Scott and realize that my colleague has left me a message checking in on my health and sanity. Both of which are in a little trouble evidently. I call her back. She commutes with another colleague that I absolutely adore. I catch them both up on the outcome of my conversation with Robin. They are both equally troubled and encourage me to take matters into my own hands.
I talk to Scott about it briefly as I cross the bridge. But just hearing his voice makes me want to cry. And if I cry I won't have to worry about Cancer because I will drive off the bridge to my certain death. One more way to skin that cat.
I call Charlotte and boo hoo a bit before collecting her advice.
At no time am I even remotely compelled to call my mother. Not for a moment.
But those I do tell agree that:
Dr. Madre's medical mission is not my problem and not reason enough to wait to hear about my choices.
While I appreciate Dr. Madre's devotion and concern, I am sure there is another doctor competent to read my chart and test results and explain my choices.
I need to know more now, because I am really no good at all at waiting around.
If someone has Cancer, I need to hear the words "We found Cancer." and nothing less definitive than that.
I try to sleep that night, my worst fears potentially coming to life. I do not have the luxury of worrying only about me. I have children. And need to stay alive so they aren't stuck being raised by their lunatic father.
At 6 am I get out of bed, make coffee and dial Robin's number by heart.
"Robin, it's Liza, Dr. Madre's patient. Before you call me back, I'd like to ask you a favor. If Dr. Madre has not left the country, I'd like to speak with him directly about his findings and my options before he leaves. If he has left, I'd like to speak to whatever doctor is following Dr. Madre's cases while he is away and begin my treatment immediately. If something is wrong, I want to begin treatment at once, not when Dr. Madre's medical mission has concluded. I don't think that is unreasonable. I hope you agree."
I hang up, sip my coffee and cry. Just a little.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Survey says!
I take deep breath as I answer. Simply so I do not have to breath at all while Robin speaks.
She is very nonchalant. It is confusing to me. What she seems to be saying is nothing I find easy to take in stride.
Dr. Madre is leaving on a medical mission and he's asked her to make an appointment for when he gets back.
"An appointment for what?" I ask.
"He wants to know how you'd prefer to be followed."
"And what am I being followed for?" Where exactly are we headed, me and my uterus?
Robin seems hesitant. "Well, there were some abnormal cells."
This isn't news. These wacky little cells were what landed me in the stirrups for the last horror show. "More cells? Different cells? Stranger looking cells?" I am trying not to sound shrill and panicked.
"Something he'd like to watch," she explains, sort of tentatively. I am sure these cells are just fascinating, but...
This all sounds familiar. She's back on the prior page of the chart for sure. I listen for sounds of her gasping in recognition, laughing and saying, "Wait a minute. I am so sorry. There's more. Let's make an appointment six months from now!"
But she says nothing. I try to clarify. "So Dr. Madre wants to talk about my options. What might be on the list?"
"Well, you can have a blahblahblah procedure, or you can come in for tests every three months"
Three months? When I was there two weeks ago he said I'd need to come back every six months. So something HAS changed. "Can I come in tomorrow?" I ask. I am really nervous now.
"Dr. Madre is leaving for Africa for three weeks. Let's put you in for when he gets back." Silence while she checks the schedule. "Dr. Madre is booked for the first week he's back. I can't open the next week's schedule this far in advance. I should be able to see it tomorrow. Why don't I call you back tomorrow morning and get you set up?"
I tell her to call my cell. I have meetings offsite at 8, 9, and 10 am. I will pick up no matter. A lot can happen in the 4 weeks I am already forced to wait. I will be a lunatic by then. And I leave for Key West Saturday. I need a plan well before I taxi down the runway.
She seems relieved to be ending the phone call.
I am anything but relieved.
She is very nonchalant. It is confusing to me. What she seems to be saying is nothing I find easy to take in stride.
Dr. Madre is leaving on a medical mission and he's asked her to make an appointment for when he gets back.
"An appointment for what?" I ask.
"He wants to know how you'd prefer to be followed."
"And what am I being followed for?" Where exactly are we headed, me and my uterus?
Robin seems hesitant. "Well, there were some abnormal cells."
This isn't news. These wacky little cells were what landed me in the stirrups for the last horror show. "More cells? Different cells? Stranger looking cells?" I am trying not to sound shrill and panicked.
"Something he'd like to watch," she explains, sort of tentatively. I am sure these cells are just fascinating, but...
This all sounds familiar. She's back on the prior page of the chart for sure. I listen for sounds of her gasping in recognition, laughing and saying, "Wait a minute. I am so sorry. There's more. Let's make an appointment six months from now!"
But she says nothing. I try to clarify. "So Dr. Madre wants to talk about my options. What might be on the list?"
"Well, you can have a blahblahblah procedure, or you can come in for tests every three months"
Three months? When I was there two weeks ago he said I'd need to come back every six months. So something HAS changed. "Can I come in tomorrow?" I ask. I am really nervous now.
"Dr. Madre is leaving for Africa for three weeks. Let's put you in for when he gets back." Silence while she checks the schedule. "Dr. Madre is booked for the first week he's back. I can't open the next week's schedule this far in advance. I should be able to see it tomorrow. Why don't I call you back tomorrow morning and get you set up?"
I tell her to call my cell. I have meetings offsite at 8, 9, and 10 am. I will pick up no matter. A lot can happen in the 4 weeks I am already forced to wait. I will be a lunatic by then. And I leave for Key West Saturday. I need a plan well before I taxi down the runway.
She seems relieved to be ending the phone call.
I am anything but relieved.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Waiting to Exhale
And with all the distracting hoop-lah, two weeks had passed. My test results from the The Little Shop of Horrors should be in. They had said two weeks. To prevent myself from hyperventilating I told myself that "two weeks" was probably like the "40 weeks" one's pregnancy is anticipated to last . No one knows for sure. It is a guesstimate at best. Days and weeks on either side were an accepted window.
Except if you are the one waiting.
I busy myself at work. I have plenty to focus upon. Projects, problems, process improvements. And the moment I leave my desk, it happens. I get a call from Robin, the medical assistant that held my hand through the plowing, irrigation and harvesting two weeks earlier. She leaves a message asking simply that I call back. Here we go again.
I call back immediately and leave a message.
And then for the next 2 hours I refuse to leave my desk for fear that the moment I go get hot water for my chamomile tea to calm my jangling nerve endings, Robin will call back. That is routinely the way my cookie crumbles.
One of my team calls from her office. "Do you have a minute to go over something?"
My normal response would be to say, "Sure. Stay put, I'll be over. Want some coffee while I'm on my way?"
But instead, I say, faster than usual so as to not stay on the line, "Yes, but I'm wigging out, and I'd come tell you why but I can't leave my office." She and I have worked together for years. Have born witness to each other's divorces, marriages, new baby's, break ups, family feuds. She knows exactly when I am sending up a flare. This is clearly one of those times.
She appears in my office within seconds and closes the door. "What gives?" Her eyes are darting around the room for signs of trouble. Suspicious packages. Subpoenas. Unsolicited anonymous gifts. J. sitting in the corner handcuffed to the chair in a last ditch act of obsession.
I tell her about Robin's message. She asks if I've called back. I reply that I have...3 times in the last hour. But I've only left one message so as to not appear to be a nut. Even though I am beginning to secretly suspect that I am.
She makes a few suggestions about getting through. Even one that includes just appearing in the office two floor below us and insisting that I get an audience with the doctor or I won't leave. I promise to keep her posted.
For the next two hours I obsessively call back. Leave messages. Dial every direct line in the practice. Leave increasingly more desperate sounding messages. As I rise to leave my office and take the stairs two at a time to the office 30 feet below me, My phone rings.
Robin. The moment of truth.
Except if you are the one waiting.
I busy myself at work. I have plenty to focus upon. Projects, problems, process improvements. And the moment I leave my desk, it happens. I get a call from Robin, the medical assistant that held my hand through the plowing, irrigation and harvesting two weeks earlier. She leaves a message asking simply that I call back. Here we go again.
I call back immediately and leave a message.
And then for the next 2 hours I refuse to leave my desk for fear that the moment I go get hot water for my chamomile tea to calm my jangling nerve endings, Robin will call back. That is routinely the way my cookie crumbles.
One of my team calls from her office. "Do you have a minute to go over something?"
My normal response would be to say, "Sure. Stay put, I'll be over. Want some coffee while I'm on my way?"
But instead, I say, faster than usual so as to not stay on the line, "Yes, but I'm wigging out, and I'd come tell you why but I can't leave my office." She and I have worked together for years. Have born witness to each other's divorces, marriages, new baby's, break ups, family feuds. She knows exactly when I am sending up a flare. This is clearly one of those times.
She appears in my office within seconds and closes the door. "What gives?" Her eyes are darting around the room for signs of trouble. Suspicious packages. Subpoenas. Unsolicited anonymous gifts. J. sitting in the corner handcuffed to the chair in a last ditch act of obsession.
I tell her about Robin's message. She asks if I've called back. I reply that I have...3 times in the last hour. But I've only left one message so as to not appear to be a nut. Even though I am beginning to secretly suspect that I am.
She makes a few suggestions about getting through. Even one that includes just appearing in the office two floor below us and insisting that I get an audience with the doctor or I won't leave. I promise to keep her posted.
For the next two hours I obsessively call back. Leave messages. Dial every direct line in the practice. Leave increasingly more desperate sounding messages. As I rise to leave my office and take the stairs two at a time to the office 30 feet below me, My phone rings.
Robin. The moment of truth.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
War! What is it Good For?
And so, I am coming to terms with a life without Mom.
It has been a very long time coming and I am finding peace in the idea that it is finally all on the table, whether consumed or not.
I feel badly that Charlotte - and to some extent Joe - occupy the dangerous DMZ of this battle. I don't know what to expect exactly, but I know how Charlotte feels and will understand what she feels she has to do to try to support me in my position without compromising her relationship with Mom, however tenuous. She will likely maintain her own tentative relationship with Mom, but carefully rebuff any criticism of me, and insist on a detour around such discussions. Bring on the weather.
Joe is a different story. I have no desire to place anyone in the middle of a battle that isn't theirs to fight, and will not engage in any further banter with Joe if I can't be sure I trust him. And I don't routinely trust him. My experience has been, that if Joe feels like you have crossed the boundary into Trusting Him And Expecting Adult Mature Behavior, he panics and has to take immediate action to make you retreat from those thoughts and cast him off once again as an idiot in grown up sized clothes. The minute he feels you have placed some life-sized burden in his lap and asked him to share it, he places his dunce cap squarely on his head and resumes his role as Village Idiot. If I were to share any of my thoughts or feelings with him about this situation, he would step back, consider which side of his bread is more thickly buttered and by whom, and take the side that will benefit him personally most handsomely. And frankly, I know the result of that evaluation even from a distance. He needs my mother's guidance, support and money more than he needs anything he gets from me, and therefore, even if she were suggesting that we bring back slavery and repeal the right for women to vote, he'd take her side. He has more to gain in supporting her than in attempting to disagree with any success.
And I can truly live with all of this.
The truth of the matter is, my mother has been training us for years. Pushing us, insisting really, that we get accustomed to a life without her. She left our home when we needed her most. She dumped considerable baggage on my Dad, who really needed a partner to tackle the issues. She would opine from a distance, and pressure us to conform to her thinking by threatening more permanent abandonment if we didn't comply. She would give advice from a distance and insist that we take it, again with threats and insults about our own capabilities, only so she could stay safely in her own world, far removed from our own, and convince herself that she had Done Her Job as a parent. Met her obligations. Checked all the boxes.
When really, what screamed the loudest above the din my mother always created, was that she had checked out, did not appreciate being sucked back in, and would provide what minimal support she had to to convince herself and others that she had acted as a mother should.
It was vacant. She was absent. The pretending was infuriating.
And now after all of these years of minimal commitment, vague involvement, superficial parenting and thinly masked disinterest, she is getting what she's been pushing for all along.
My mother has been coaching us to accept a life with no need for or dependence upon her. Like my brother, she panics under the pressure. Does not want the responsibility. This finality has really been what she's sought in a distant relationship with her children all along. She does not want the pressure of traditional parental roles.
And so now that I have decided that a life that doesn't include her and her disappointments is just fine with me, she is a little unnerved.
Not by the result, mind you. But that her bluff has been called. She's pissed that she's been busted for faking it all along.
It has been a very long time coming and I am finding peace in the idea that it is finally all on the table, whether consumed or not.
I feel badly that Charlotte - and to some extent Joe - occupy the dangerous DMZ of this battle. I don't know what to expect exactly, but I know how Charlotte feels and will understand what she feels she has to do to try to support me in my position without compromising her relationship with Mom, however tenuous. She will likely maintain her own tentative relationship with Mom, but carefully rebuff any criticism of me, and insist on a detour around such discussions. Bring on the weather.
Joe is a different story. I have no desire to place anyone in the middle of a battle that isn't theirs to fight, and will not engage in any further banter with Joe if I can't be sure I trust him. And I don't routinely trust him. My experience has been, that if Joe feels like you have crossed the boundary into Trusting Him And Expecting Adult Mature Behavior, he panics and has to take immediate action to make you retreat from those thoughts and cast him off once again as an idiot in grown up sized clothes. The minute he feels you have placed some life-sized burden in his lap and asked him to share it, he places his dunce cap squarely on his head and resumes his role as Village Idiot. If I were to share any of my thoughts or feelings with him about this situation, he would step back, consider which side of his bread is more thickly buttered and by whom, and take the side that will benefit him personally most handsomely. And frankly, I know the result of that evaluation even from a distance. He needs my mother's guidance, support and money more than he needs anything he gets from me, and therefore, even if she were suggesting that we bring back slavery and repeal the right for women to vote, he'd take her side. He has more to gain in supporting her than in attempting to disagree with any success.
And I can truly live with all of this.
The truth of the matter is, my mother has been training us for years. Pushing us, insisting really, that we get accustomed to a life without her. She left our home when we needed her most. She dumped considerable baggage on my Dad, who really needed a partner to tackle the issues. She would opine from a distance, and pressure us to conform to her thinking by threatening more permanent abandonment if we didn't comply. She would give advice from a distance and insist that we take it, again with threats and insults about our own capabilities, only so she could stay safely in her own world, far removed from our own, and convince herself that she had Done Her Job as a parent. Met her obligations. Checked all the boxes.
When really, what screamed the loudest above the din my mother always created, was that she had checked out, did not appreciate being sucked back in, and would provide what minimal support she had to to convince herself and others that she had acted as a mother should.
It was vacant. She was absent. The pretending was infuriating.
And now after all of these years of minimal commitment, vague involvement, superficial parenting and thinly masked disinterest, she is getting what she's been pushing for all along.
My mother has been coaching us to accept a life with no need for or dependence upon her. Like my brother, she panics under the pressure. Does not want the responsibility. This finality has really been what she's sought in a distant relationship with her children all along. She does not want the pressure of traditional parental roles.
And so now that I have decided that a life that doesn't include her and her disappointments is just fine with me, she is a little unnerved.
Not by the result, mind you. But that her bluff has been called. She's pissed that she's been busted for faking it all along.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Games People Play
Of course, I am not going to respond. There is absolutely nothing to gain from it. My brother is a blooming idiot and will never appreciate the complexities of the situation. The relationship. The psychology. Forest Gump had better intuition. And considerably more charm, I might add.
But to be truthful, the five-year-old in me would really like to. In some way.
Maybe to just play her game and reply, "What ever do you mean? Nothing is going on. What are you talking about?"
Wouldn't that get the tongues wagging up and down the coast? Mom's Big Calamity not even registering on my Top 10 List of Things for Which I Wish I Could Get a Do-Over. He'd have to obediently report back that I had absolutely nothing unusual or of import to mention. And Mom, incensed, would screech, shooting the messenger as she always does, "Text her back, whatever that is, that she knows damn well blah-dee-blah-dee-blah-dee-blah-yakkety-yakkety-yakkety..." all in a voice that could peel paint.
Or maybe it would be more sporting to send back a third-party insult. Something blistering that would effectively impale its recipient the moment Joe figured out how to use the "forward" function on his pre-paid flip phone. Perhaps something that began with the words, "Our mother is an unstable lunatic that is becoming increasingly more dangerous to herself and others and really needs to be institutionalized at once. Please retrieve all of the registered and unregistered weapons from her home. I have filed for a restraining order and she and her equally unstable husband should check with the local authorities before entering the county in which I reside. Which is the county where you reside. You can thank me later."
Or, pretending to confide in him, I could lay it all out. The gossiping to Charlotte about me. About him. The insane complaint about my not kissing Bill on the mouth. Bill's implied intention to leave Mom penniless and alone and his statements about ensuring that Joe will never see a penny of THEIR money because it's all HIS money. And then once Joe's loyalty is on the fence, I can tear into Mom's lifetime of drama and bullshit and the fact that she has only herself to blame if she feels her children's loyalty waning. She can couch it anyway she pleases, but the truth is, she has been walking away from us and expecting us the obediently follow at a distance for decades. Dumped us and all our ensuing baggage solely in Dad's lap so she could go have fun. Has been trading our interests for those of the men she's ensnared all along. We haven't ranked in the top three for years and she's just pissed that we've gotten wise to her. That's what's going on, my gullible friend.
Those are the things I'd love to relate by my unwitting carrier pigeon brother.
But I won't. Because he's guaranteed to inadvertently botch the mission. And really, it just has no value. I don't care enough to engage in this game.
But to be truthful, the five-year-old in me would really like to. In some way.
Maybe to just play her game and reply, "What ever do you mean? Nothing is going on. What are you talking about?"
Wouldn't that get the tongues wagging up and down the coast? Mom's Big Calamity not even registering on my Top 10 List of Things for Which I Wish I Could Get a Do-Over. He'd have to obediently report back that I had absolutely nothing unusual or of import to mention. And Mom, incensed, would screech, shooting the messenger as she always does, "Text her back, whatever that is, that she knows damn well blah-dee-blah-dee-blah-dee-blah-yakkety-yakkety-yakkety..." all in a voice that could peel paint.
Or maybe it would be more sporting to send back a third-party insult. Something blistering that would effectively impale its recipient the moment Joe figured out how to use the "forward" function on his pre-paid flip phone. Perhaps something that began with the words, "Our mother is an unstable lunatic that is becoming increasingly more dangerous to herself and others and really needs to be institutionalized at once. Please retrieve all of the registered and unregistered weapons from her home. I have filed for a restraining order and she and her equally unstable husband should check with the local authorities before entering the county in which I reside. Which is the county where you reside. You can thank me later."
Or, pretending to confide in him, I could lay it all out. The gossiping to Charlotte about me. About him. The insane complaint about my not kissing Bill on the mouth. Bill's implied intention to leave Mom penniless and alone and his statements about ensuring that Joe will never see a penny of THEIR money because it's all HIS money. And then once Joe's loyalty is on the fence, I can tear into Mom's lifetime of drama and bullshit and the fact that she has only herself to blame if she feels her children's loyalty waning. She can couch it anyway she pleases, but the truth is, she has been walking away from us and expecting us the obediently follow at a distance for decades. Dumped us and all our ensuing baggage solely in Dad's lap so she could go have fun. Has been trading our interests for those of the men she's ensnared all along. We haven't ranked in the top three for years and she's just pissed that we've gotten wise to her. That's what's going on, my gullible friend.
Those are the things I'd love to relate by my unwitting carrier pigeon brother.
But I won't. Because he's guaranteed to inadvertently botch the mission. And really, it just has no value. I don't care enough to engage in this game.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Phone-y Baloney
All that said, there is a part of me that wants to call Mom on all the trash talk and misinformation she is buzzing about in her corner of the universe. I want to also set her straight. And call her on her less than flattering conduct over the years. Maybe send another letter. (as if it would meet with a different fate than the one she'd sent to me...)
But I won't do any of that because truthfully, there is some relief for me in the notion of decisiveness and finality. I feel as though I've spent half of my waking life dealing with Mom.Or her nonsense. Or her social drama. Or something else she's cooked up and served on a platter for those around her to be force fed like future fois gras geese.
There is so much that I'd love to enlighten Mom about. Share my opinion. Correct the impression. Things that I'd like to remind her about that she remembers a little less clearly.
But it is a waste of time. And energy. And a drag on my soul.
And it no longer is important enough to warrant these sacrifices. I genuinely don't care.
Mom and Charlotte touch base a few days later. Charlotte reports that there was no mud slinging about my response to The Insipid Letter.
There are a few possible reasons:
1 - She knows Charlotte will repeat every last nasty word and wants to come off as The Fairest of Them All.
2 - She wants Charlotte to be able to tell me "Mom doesn't give one good S*** about what you did. She didn't even mention it. Talked about the weather."
3 - She really doesn't care. I am dead to her.
It could be all three. But she must be flapping to someone.
Joe.
A few days later I am at my desk enjoying the relative peace of having finally dealt with Mom when I get a text from Joe.
"What's going on with you and Mom?!"
But I won't do any of that because truthfully, there is some relief for me in the notion of decisiveness and finality. I feel as though I've spent half of my waking life dealing with Mom.Or her nonsense. Or her social drama. Or something else she's cooked up and served on a platter for those around her to be force fed like future fois gras geese.
There is so much that I'd love to enlighten Mom about. Share my opinion. Correct the impression. Things that I'd like to remind her about that she remembers a little less clearly.
But it is a waste of time. And energy. And a drag on my soul.
And it no longer is important enough to warrant these sacrifices. I genuinely don't care.
Mom and Charlotte touch base a few days later. Charlotte reports that there was no mud slinging about my response to The Insipid Letter.
There are a few possible reasons:
1 - She knows Charlotte will repeat every last nasty word and wants to come off as The Fairest of Them All.
2 - She wants Charlotte to be able to tell me "Mom doesn't give one good S*** about what you did. She didn't even mention it. Talked about the weather."
3 - She really doesn't care. I am dead to her.
It could be all three. But she must be flapping to someone.
Joe.
A few days later I am at my desk enjoying the relative peace of having finally dealt with Mom when I get a text from Joe.
"What's going on with you and Mom?!"
Monday, February 20, 2012
The Trappings
Eventually, when Dad was too sick to stay in Assisted Living because he needed more assistance to live than they were prepared to provide, all the contents of his apartment came home to my house. We'd decided on a Nursing Home and had gotten him placed. But the timing was such that we'd have to clear out his apartment the next day or pay for another month, which was not exactly cheap.
Lars and his friend rented a U-Haul after work and took everything they could carry out and stuff into the truck. There were several big pieces of furniture that we donated to residents who might have need. And there was Dad's enormous TV. Lars had gone back to the store, which was owned by one of Dad's long time customers, and had explained Dad's situation. The man graciously let Lars return the big TV in favor of a smaller one that could go with Dad to the nursing home. Lars is by no means a saint, but this was a Big Deal at the time.
And that is how those now fabled sentimental pieces came to be in my possession. My husband saved the family thousands in a good will gesture and an effort my brother refused to make. I took in all the furniture, all the papers, all the clothes, shoes, boxes, into my home. Everything. The good. The bad. The ugly.
And when I asked my siblings to help sort through it and clear it all out, only Charlotte came to the rescue. Took 50 years of pay stubs and tax records and other such stuff and sorted through it. Burning what could be discarded and filing the rest.
I again sorted through all the items and assembled a box for each child...Charlotte's godfather is pictured here, she should get that. This is a photo of Joe's godparents on their wedding day. He should have that. This treasure should be Joe's. This treasure is special to me. Charlotte might want to keep that. Tons. Of. Stuff.
I had no burning desire to fill my basement and attic with the contents of my childhood home, but I did. And eventually, piece by piece, got rid of a lot. And welcomed my siblings help with disposing of things. Charlotte was a sport. Joe was an absentee.
It mattered less and less. I made room in my living space for the desk Dad had made in Wood Shop. Not because it was beautiful. Because it was special. I gave my hutch to the young family who had just moved in across the street. I polished and buffed the one Mom and Dad had had made and moved it into my dining room. Again, only because it is special. Dad and I had taken a special trip to the furniture maker together. A day off from school spent exclusively with Dad when I was in the fourth grade. To me it was not just furniture. I found a spot for the little chair that my grandmother always chose when she came to Dad's house.
And now, all these years later, Mom is trying to cast it all in a most unfavorable light. It is her special gift. She can turn a diamond to a turd in a matter of sentences.
And why on Earth do I care? I know the truth.
I suppose what shreds my nerve endings is that anyone could have such hateful thoughts about their own child. And worse, that she could go on a smear campaign in an attempt to undermine that same child. Recall and recount every last thing I'd ever done that frosted her cakes, whether she remembers it correctly or not.
To what end, Mom? What do you hope to gain?
I have no idea how she'd answer those questions, but I do know what she risks losing. And frankly, it's already lost.
Lars and his friend rented a U-Haul after work and took everything they could carry out and stuff into the truck. There were several big pieces of furniture that we donated to residents who might have need. And there was Dad's enormous TV. Lars had gone back to the store, which was owned by one of Dad's long time customers, and had explained Dad's situation. The man graciously let Lars return the big TV in favor of a smaller one that could go with Dad to the nursing home. Lars is by no means a saint, but this was a Big Deal at the time.
And that is how those now fabled sentimental pieces came to be in my possession. My husband saved the family thousands in a good will gesture and an effort my brother refused to make. I took in all the furniture, all the papers, all the clothes, shoes, boxes, into my home. Everything. The good. The bad. The ugly.
And when I asked my siblings to help sort through it and clear it all out, only Charlotte came to the rescue. Took 50 years of pay stubs and tax records and other such stuff and sorted through it. Burning what could be discarded and filing the rest.
I again sorted through all the items and assembled a box for each child...Charlotte's godfather is pictured here, she should get that. This is a photo of Joe's godparents on their wedding day. He should have that. This treasure should be Joe's. This treasure is special to me. Charlotte might want to keep that. Tons. Of. Stuff.
I had no burning desire to fill my basement and attic with the contents of my childhood home, but I did. And eventually, piece by piece, got rid of a lot. And welcomed my siblings help with disposing of things. Charlotte was a sport. Joe was an absentee.
It mattered less and less. I made room in my living space for the desk Dad had made in Wood Shop. Not because it was beautiful. Because it was special. I gave my hutch to the young family who had just moved in across the street. I polished and buffed the one Mom and Dad had had made and moved it into my dining room. Again, only because it is special. Dad and I had taken a special trip to the furniture maker together. A day off from school spent exclusively with Dad when I was in the fourth grade. To me it was not just furniture. I found a spot for the little chair that my grandmother always chose when she came to Dad's house.
And now, all these years later, Mom is trying to cast it all in a most unfavorable light. It is her special gift. She can turn a diamond to a turd in a matter of sentences.
And why on Earth do I care? I know the truth.
I suppose what shreds my nerve endings is that anyone could have such hateful thoughts about their own child. And worse, that she could go on a smear campaign in an attempt to undermine that same child. Recall and recount every last thing I'd ever done that frosted her cakes, whether she remembers it correctly or not.
To what end, Mom? What do you hope to gain?
I have no idea how she'd answer those questions, but I do know what she risks losing. And frankly, it's already lost.
Friday, February 17, 2012
A Pack of Lies
There is a whole bunch of other crap in the voice mail too, and then there are musings my mother has shared with Charlotte as bonus tracks. Most notably, she thinks I took things from my Dad's house when we were cleaning it out to sell it.
I don't know how she sleeps at night.
A dozen or so years ago, Charlotte and I had the daunting task of getting my Dad's house ready to sell when he was moving into an Assisted Living facility. (Having taken a header down the steps one to many times for any of us to be able to ignore, even my brother, who pretends nothing is ever happening.)
I say it was Charlotte and me because Charlotte took charge, and I did whatever she thought was best to do, and Joe did nothing (unless forced, and even then, he brought his monstrous children along to be underfoot and on our nerves and spent most of the time asking about when we'd be ordering lunch.) He was so lame, that Mom actually covertly took a ride north one weekend to help, because the house was sold and still looked like a museum. I'd ordered a dumpster and we needed to fill it fast.
But for quite a long time, Charlotte did the planning and she and I executed the plan together. She spent hours at the house while the kids were at school. I would make calls to the township for pick ups, and make arrangements for donations. Order the dumpster and it's eventual hauling away. Spend chunks of weekend time cleaning and disposing of things. Return on weeknights to put out ever growing loads of trash or charity donations to be hauled away the next day. There was quite a lot to do. It was an understatement to say that the house "had gotten away from" Dad. It wasn't quite Grey Gardens, but it was headed in that direction, minus the raccoons and feral cats and trees growing through the roof.
Charlotte had figured out what furniture Dad needed in his apartment and what additional items would fit to make it as much like home as possible. The rest had to go.
Nothing had been thrown out in years---since before my mother sashayed out the door to "find herself." Charlotte and I were like the cast of Clean House. We started small. We made piles: A pile of each child's personal stuff that had never left the nest (sports trophies and swimming medals and yearbooks and diplomas). Sentimental favorites that should be kept in the family (like the bench my parents got when they were first married or the desk Dad made in woodshop in high school and the golf clubs that he held in his hands every Saturday for years). Things that could be donated (such as dishes and linens and pots and pans and small appliances. Who needs a blender in an Assisted Living facility?) Stuff for a yard sale (power tools, a snow blower, cook books, patio furniture.)
It all needed to leave the house. Bell, book and candle by plane, train or automobile. It was all up for grabs in a sense. At any point, any one of us could have laid claim to anything. (Except evidently Lars. My mother charged him $40 for a hedge trimmer that broke after one use. We were still years away from the first divorce conversation. I never did understand that.)
I took my personal pile. I took the bench. At the time, no one had anywhere in their homes to display it, but it needed to be cared for, so I took it home to store. That was about all I could see taking. Dad would be enjoying my most favorite sentimental pieces for a long time in his apartment, I'd hoped. I didn't really want to scavenge. But I did take those little pine incense things.
My brother took Dad's golf clubs (both sets) and the wooden delivery wagon used by paperboys at the newspaper where Dad had worked (It is awesome, and probably a collector's item) and the ceramic Nativity set my parents had gotten for themselves as a Christmas present one year (which I learned later remained in the trunk of his car for a number of months thereafter.)
Charlotte took a few holiday items my mother had made in a ceramics class and a little wooden desk that had been her bedside table. I still love seeing it at the cottage each summer.
The rest went to charity, the dumpster the yard sale or with Dad. (or to Joe's mother in law, who, while cleaning the refrigerator because Joe could never get to it like he promised, helped herself to some bedroom furniture).
There was one item that could not legally be sold or donated that my mother helped herself too. It makes me uneasy in a way, but should come as no surprise to anyone that the one thing she could not resist was...
(Drum roll, please)... Dad's hunting rifle.
I don't know how she sleeps at night.
A dozen or so years ago, Charlotte and I had the daunting task of getting my Dad's house ready to sell when he was moving into an Assisted Living facility. (Having taken a header down the steps one to many times for any of us to be able to ignore, even my brother, who pretends nothing is ever happening.)
I say it was Charlotte and me because Charlotte took charge, and I did whatever she thought was best to do, and Joe did nothing (unless forced, and even then, he brought his monstrous children along to be underfoot and on our nerves and spent most of the time asking about when we'd be ordering lunch.) He was so lame, that Mom actually covertly took a ride north one weekend to help, because the house was sold and still looked like a museum. I'd ordered a dumpster and we needed to fill it fast.
But for quite a long time, Charlotte did the planning and she and I executed the plan together. She spent hours at the house while the kids were at school. I would make calls to the township for pick ups, and make arrangements for donations. Order the dumpster and it's eventual hauling away. Spend chunks of weekend time cleaning and disposing of things. Return on weeknights to put out ever growing loads of trash or charity donations to be hauled away the next day. There was quite a lot to do. It was an understatement to say that the house "had gotten away from" Dad. It wasn't quite Grey Gardens, but it was headed in that direction, minus the raccoons and feral cats and trees growing through the roof.
Charlotte had figured out what furniture Dad needed in his apartment and what additional items would fit to make it as much like home as possible. The rest had to go.
Nothing had been thrown out in years---since before my mother sashayed out the door to "find herself." Charlotte and I were like the cast of Clean House. We started small. We made piles: A pile of each child's personal stuff that had never left the nest (sports trophies and swimming medals and yearbooks and diplomas). Sentimental favorites that should be kept in the family (like the bench my parents got when they were first married or the desk Dad made in woodshop in high school and the golf clubs that he held in his hands every Saturday for years). Things that could be donated (such as dishes and linens and pots and pans and small appliances. Who needs a blender in an Assisted Living facility?) Stuff for a yard sale (power tools, a snow blower, cook books, patio furniture.)
It all needed to leave the house. Bell, book and candle by plane, train or automobile. It was all up for grabs in a sense. At any point, any one of us could have laid claim to anything. (Except evidently Lars. My mother charged him $40 for a hedge trimmer that broke after one use. We were still years away from the first divorce conversation. I never did understand that.)
I took my personal pile. I took the bench. At the time, no one had anywhere in their homes to display it, but it needed to be cared for, so I took it home to store. That was about all I could see taking. Dad would be enjoying my most favorite sentimental pieces for a long time in his apartment, I'd hoped. I didn't really want to scavenge. But I did take those little pine incense things.
My brother took Dad's golf clubs (both sets) and the wooden delivery wagon used by paperboys at the newspaper where Dad had worked (It is awesome, and probably a collector's item) and the ceramic Nativity set my parents had gotten for themselves as a Christmas present one year (which I learned later remained in the trunk of his car for a number of months thereafter.)
Charlotte took a few holiday items my mother had made in a ceramics class and a little wooden desk that had been her bedside table. I still love seeing it at the cottage each summer.
The rest went to charity, the dumpster the yard sale or with Dad. (or to Joe's mother in law, who, while cleaning the refrigerator because Joe could never get to it like he promised, helped herself to some bedroom furniture).
There was one item that could not legally be sold or donated that my mother helped herself too. It makes me uneasy in a way, but should come as no surprise to anyone that the one thing she could not resist was...
(Drum roll, please)... Dad's hunting rifle.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
A Mind is a Terrible Thing to Waste
Some days later, as a matter of absolute closure (and maybe for a little more material for this blog, as Mom is such a willing contributor) I listen to the rest of the phone message from the week before.
I do believe, that if there were a contest to see who could get to Hell the fastest, my mother would be way out in front.
In the phone message, she quickly recovers from the fake crying to go on a rant. In addition to claiming that she and Bill have been generous with their time and money, (which is still baffling to me - I haven't seen any magnanimous financial gestures, and we've already been over how stingy they are with time to spend with children and grandchildren. Clearly they are both delusional on these topics) she also claims to have "always been there for me."
I can barely collect my thought on this.
Mom has been a lot of things, but "there for me," or, to be truthful, there for anyone else besides the men in her life, does not crack the list of top 100 things that define my mother. She may like to remember a home life filled with cookie baking and bedtime stories, but that is just fantasy. Maybe that's something she's conjured up to make her feel better when suspicions that she was not Mother of the Year creep in.
But my favorite claim - or is it more accurate to say that it is an accusation? - involves my father.
Yes. She did go there.
She claims that when my father's health was failing, and after a surgery gone wrong that turned a 4 day hospital stay into a 9 week hospital stay complete with pneumonia, intubation, cardioverts, falls, broken bones, medication mismanagement, dementia, mechanically softened food, stroke risks and a host of other disasters, that she provided care for him and I did not.
There is some factual truth to this, on the surface. At the time, Dad could not live alone. He was in a wheelchair part of the time and had limited mobility all of the time. He was also a non-complaint diabetic, meaning if someone did not control what he ate, he'd eat the Twinkies.
He was discharged and went to Charlotte's. She has multiple levels to her house and a lot of short flights of stairs, but she was home full time. Not ideal, but the best possible choice at the time. She is also an RN and could get a quick handle on the diabetes.
After two weeks and about as many near nervous breakdowns, Charlotte asked for someone to give her some relief. Dad was up and on the steps without warning, falling, getting stuck on the toilet and a host of other humiliating and troubling things. All day long. And Charlotte had three school-aged boys. Dad was a full time job.
My brother and his wife took Dad in, however briefly. Their house has a bathroom and a room that could be used for a bedroom on the first floor. Mary-ellen was also home full time. But their wicked children tortured my Dad so (Their son most famously taking his walker and running away with it - presumably in the direction of Hell's Children's Department) and Joe and Mary-ellen practically killed Dad with their diet. Dad was hospitalized once again with grave blood-sugar issues.
So Mom and Bill came up, in what I still describe as an extraordinary gesture. They moved Dad back to his own house and helped him learn to get around. There were no distractions from children or jobs to interfere, and Bill, a carpenter by trade, placed additional railings and other assistive devices throughout Dad's house. Mom misguidedly took him out driving. (And he did drive, until a bunch accidents, as reported by neighbors who saw the wrecks pull up to the house, forced us to take the car away.) We were all grateful for Mom and Bill. Still are.
But what Mom recalls specifically is that I had not had Dad in my home. I admit it. I did not. But it was an option we discussed as a family and had dismissed. At the time, I had (and still do) a 3-story house, with several sets of steps at both entrances, and 13 steps between floors. And no bathrooms or bedrooms on the first floor. And no wheelchair-wide doorways. The house was built way before the modern wheelchair joined the party.
Additionally I had a 6-month old daughter, an 18-month old son, a full time job and a crazy husband, who also held a full time job. And since Hil was only 6 months old, and I had just returned from maternity leave, I was not even eligible to take Family Leave time to care for Dad.
But I did my part in other ways. Lots of other ways. Meanignful, helpful ways. Charlotte will tell you so. And I know so. And Dad knew it. That is really all that counts.
But I would be lying if I said it doesn't gall me just a little that in Mom's mind, it all happened so differently. She remembers only herself as the hero and me as shirking my responsibilities. How convenient for her at this time.
Honestly, I can live with that. The convenient inaccuracy of her recollections doesn't matter. If she wants to tell her wild tales about what a wicked daughter I am, she can. Who's listening? Bill?
I do believe, that if there were a contest to see who could get to Hell the fastest, my mother would be way out in front.
In the phone message, she quickly recovers from the fake crying to go on a rant. In addition to claiming that she and Bill have been generous with their time and money, (which is still baffling to me - I haven't seen any magnanimous financial gestures, and we've already been over how stingy they are with time to spend with children and grandchildren. Clearly they are both delusional on these topics) she also claims to have "always been there for me."
I can barely collect my thought on this.
Mom has been a lot of things, but "there for me," or, to be truthful, there for anyone else besides the men in her life, does not crack the list of top 100 things that define my mother. She may like to remember a home life filled with cookie baking and bedtime stories, but that is just fantasy. Maybe that's something she's conjured up to make her feel better when suspicions that she was not Mother of the Year creep in.
But my favorite claim - or is it more accurate to say that it is an accusation? - involves my father.
Yes. She did go there.
She claims that when my father's health was failing, and after a surgery gone wrong that turned a 4 day hospital stay into a 9 week hospital stay complete with pneumonia, intubation, cardioverts, falls, broken bones, medication mismanagement, dementia, mechanically softened food, stroke risks and a host of other disasters, that she provided care for him and I did not.
There is some factual truth to this, on the surface. At the time, Dad could not live alone. He was in a wheelchair part of the time and had limited mobility all of the time. He was also a non-complaint diabetic, meaning if someone did not control what he ate, he'd eat the Twinkies.
He was discharged and went to Charlotte's. She has multiple levels to her house and a lot of short flights of stairs, but she was home full time. Not ideal, but the best possible choice at the time. She is also an RN and could get a quick handle on the diabetes.
After two weeks and about as many near nervous breakdowns, Charlotte asked for someone to give her some relief. Dad was up and on the steps without warning, falling, getting stuck on the toilet and a host of other humiliating and troubling things. All day long. And Charlotte had three school-aged boys. Dad was a full time job.
My brother and his wife took Dad in, however briefly. Their house has a bathroom and a room that could be used for a bedroom on the first floor. Mary-ellen was also home full time. But their wicked children tortured my Dad so (Their son most famously taking his walker and running away with it - presumably in the direction of Hell's Children's Department) and Joe and Mary-ellen practically killed Dad with their diet. Dad was hospitalized once again with grave blood-sugar issues.
So Mom and Bill came up, in what I still describe as an extraordinary gesture. They moved Dad back to his own house and helped him learn to get around. There were no distractions from children or jobs to interfere, and Bill, a carpenter by trade, placed additional railings and other assistive devices throughout Dad's house. Mom misguidedly took him out driving. (And he did drive, until a bunch accidents, as reported by neighbors who saw the wrecks pull up to the house, forced us to take the car away.) We were all grateful for Mom and Bill. Still are.
But what Mom recalls specifically is that I had not had Dad in my home. I admit it. I did not. But it was an option we discussed as a family and had dismissed. At the time, I had (and still do) a 3-story house, with several sets of steps at both entrances, and 13 steps between floors. And no bathrooms or bedrooms on the first floor. And no wheelchair-wide doorways. The house was built way before the modern wheelchair joined the party.
Additionally I had a 6-month old daughter, an 18-month old son, a full time job and a crazy husband, who also held a full time job. And since Hil was only 6 months old, and I had just returned from maternity leave, I was not even eligible to take Family Leave time to care for Dad.
But I did my part in other ways. Lots of other ways. Meanignful, helpful ways. Charlotte will tell you so. And I know so. And Dad knew it. That is really all that counts.
But I would be lying if I said it doesn't gall me just a little that in Mom's mind, it all happened so differently. She remembers only herself as the hero and me as shirking my responsibilities. How convenient for her at this time.
Honestly, I can live with that. The convenient inaccuracy of her recollections doesn't matter. If she wants to tell her wild tales about what a wicked daughter I am, she can. Who's listening? Bill?
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Slamma Lamma Ding Dong, Round Two
Of course immediately following that call, I breathe into a paper bag for a minute or two, recover my ability to speak and call Charlotte. I try with all my might not to sound like I've come untethered from reality.
I verbally scroll through the events of the past few minutes. I'd packed a lot of drama and activities into such a short time. Charlotte is curious about the rest of the heinous letter. I tell her I would be happy to pluck it from the mail slot and let her read it, but reiterate that my disinterest in the rest of its intended message is genuine and enduring. No, she says. It can be on its way. As it should be.
It is liberating actually. I am having a fully formed succinct thought about something that has been percolating under the surface for years: I really do not care what my mother has to say about her impressions of me. And if it is at all possible, I care even less about whether or not Bill is impressed with me or my conduct or my children or my choices in men or anything else he might observe in his 3.2 hours in my company prior to passing out cold.
I am not a sociopath. I do actually want to abide by society's mores and norms and contribute something, and do good. And I would never want to be tried unfavorably in the court of public opinion, or even fall out of favor with my friends and certain family for my conduct or my attitudes.
It is just that I don't care what Mom thinks. I am sure there was a time when I did, but that ship has left the harbor.
I don't seek her approval.
I don't need her permission.
I am not concerned whether or not she likes me.
I don't emulate her and am not motivated to create for her a sense of pride for me.
Those things are reserved for other people. Charlotte, Jack, their children, MY children, Scott and his family. My boss. His boss. My employees. Kate, Joy, Priscilla, Jackie - and some of their parents! These are the people, in no particular order, who keep my sense of decorum in tact and my moral compass pointed due North. Not my mother. And certainly not her lousy husband.
I realize my breathing has slowed, my hands have ceased to shake. I pour myself a low carb beer, put on my jammies and turn on the game. I feel like I've just finished a long novel and have closed the cover and placed it on a shelf, never to be read again.
I verbally scroll through the events of the past few minutes. I'd packed a lot of drama and activities into such a short time. Charlotte is curious about the rest of the heinous letter. I tell her I would be happy to pluck it from the mail slot and let her read it, but reiterate that my disinterest in the rest of its intended message is genuine and enduring. No, she says. It can be on its way. As it should be.
It is liberating actually. I am having a fully formed succinct thought about something that has been percolating under the surface for years: I really do not care what my mother has to say about her impressions of me. And if it is at all possible, I care even less about whether or not Bill is impressed with me or my conduct or my children or my choices in men or anything else he might observe in his 3.2 hours in my company prior to passing out cold.
I am not a sociopath. I do actually want to abide by society's mores and norms and contribute something, and do good. And I would never want to be tried unfavorably in the court of public opinion, or even fall out of favor with my friends and certain family for my conduct or my attitudes.
It is just that I don't care what Mom thinks. I am sure there was a time when I did, but that ship has left the harbor.
I don't seek her approval.
I don't need her permission.
I am not concerned whether or not she likes me.
I don't emulate her and am not motivated to create for her a sense of pride for me.
Those things are reserved for other people. Charlotte, Jack, their children, MY children, Scott and his family. My boss. His boss. My employees. Kate, Joy, Priscilla, Jackie - and some of their parents! These are the people, in no particular order, who keep my sense of decorum in tact and my moral compass pointed due North. Not my mother. And certainly not her lousy husband.
I realize my breathing has slowed, my hands have ceased to shake. I pour myself a low carb beer, put on my jammies and turn on the game. I feel like I've just finished a long novel and have closed the cover and placed it on a shelf, never to be read again.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Letter Bomb
The weekend flies by and thanks to a double dose of pressure at work, I cut it a little short and return home on Sunday afternoon. It is a beautiful drive through the wetlands and traffic is light. I stop at the grocery store for a few items and treats for Trinket on the way. I am home in time for the second playoff football game of the day.
I walk in the door and great the kitty who has evidently missed me terribly. She is pouncing on me from head to toe and purring her little whiskers off. I am sure it has something to do with the fact that I will be using my opposable thumbs to open a can of tuna pronto.
Once the cat is settled infront of her dish, I return to the door to retrieve Friday and Saturday's mail. Junk. A late Christmas card. My W-2. Swim Club dues packet.
And a letter from Mom. Buzzkill that she can be.
I at first toss it on the table for later in favor of the game but then decide that I will only fester until I've opened it.
It contains 4 or 5, maybe 6 lined pages of notebook paper. The handwriting in ink, and in uncharacteristically small, tight script. Unusual for my mother.
This is not a good sign. I am no handwriting expert, but I can tell angry writing when I see it.
I unfold the top fold and begin to read:
Dear Liza,
You were such a disappointment at Christmas.
And just like that I am at a rolling boil and about to blow a carotid artery. I am shaking I am so angry.
I do not read a single word more. Not one. With my feet barely touching the floor I take to my desk. I uncap a pen and re-open the folded paper.
I mark a star on the paper at the end of the only sentence I've read, probably pressing a little too hard on the paper. I am glad I have a blotter or what I wrote next would be forever carved into the surface of my antique secretary desk.
I draw a line to the space at the top of the page from the star. The line ends in the 2 inch band of white space at the top where I angrily write, again, pressing way too hard:
"YOU are a complete failure as a mother. I read only this far in the letter and will read no further. I won't even keep this letter in my house."
I take a spare greeting card envelope from one of the little slots in the desk and fold the letter in half in its original envelope. I stuff it inside, address it and seal it. I affix two stamps. I want to make sure it gets there.
I have another moment of hatred. Mom is not the only one to blame. Bill should feel a sting too. I flip over the envelope and write on the back (again, with a little too much pressure):
"The stupid shelves Bill made that I've been told he did not want to give to me at all have been disposed of."
I stomp to the door and place it in the mailbox. I want no delay in its return.
There is part of me that thinks Mom mailed this early enough that it arrived on Friday while I was blissfully beginning a weekend at Scott's. She's probably gloating in her Carolina room thinking she really hit her mark since there has been no retort from me in days.
Not for long. I go to my center hall and pick up my land line phone. I want no dropped call issues for this call. I dial Mom and Bill's land line. She answers very cheerily.
I screech.
"I got your insipid letter and want you to know that I read exactly one sentence before I got rid of it. I have no interest in ever hearing from you again. Do not contact me."
And this time I got to slam the phone into its cradle. Very satisfying.
I walk in the door and great the kitty who has evidently missed me terribly. She is pouncing on me from head to toe and purring her little whiskers off. I am sure it has something to do with the fact that I will be using my opposable thumbs to open a can of tuna pronto.
Once the cat is settled infront of her dish, I return to the door to retrieve Friday and Saturday's mail. Junk. A late Christmas card. My W-2. Swim Club dues packet.
And a letter from Mom. Buzzkill that she can be.
I at first toss it on the table for later in favor of the game but then decide that I will only fester until I've opened it.
It contains 4 or 5, maybe 6 lined pages of notebook paper. The handwriting in ink, and in uncharacteristically small, tight script. Unusual for my mother.
This is not a good sign. I am no handwriting expert, but I can tell angry writing when I see it.
I unfold the top fold and begin to read:
Dear Liza,
You were such a disappointment at Christmas.
And just like that I am at a rolling boil and about to blow a carotid artery. I am shaking I am so angry.
I do not read a single word more. Not one. With my feet barely touching the floor I take to my desk. I uncap a pen and re-open the folded paper.
I mark a star on the paper at the end of the only sentence I've read, probably pressing a little too hard on the paper. I am glad I have a blotter or what I wrote next would be forever carved into the surface of my antique secretary desk.
I draw a line to the space at the top of the page from the star. The line ends in the 2 inch band of white space at the top where I angrily write, again, pressing way too hard:
"YOU are a complete failure as a mother. I read only this far in the letter and will read no further. I won't even keep this letter in my house."
I take a spare greeting card envelope from one of the little slots in the desk and fold the letter in half in its original envelope. I stuff it inside, address it and seal it. I affix two stamps. I want to make sure it gets there.
I have another moment of hatred. Mom is not the only one to blame. Bill should feel a sting too. I flip over the envelope and write on the back (again, with a little too much pressure):
"The stupid shelves Bill made that I've been told he did not want to give to me at all have been disposed of."
I stomp to the door and place it in the mailbox. I want no delay in its return.
There is part of me that thinks Mom mailed this early enough that it arrived on Friday while I was blissfully beginning a weekend at Scott's. She's probably gloating in her Carolina room thinking she really hit her mark since there has been no retort from me in days.
Not for long. I go to my center hall and pick up my land line phone. I want no dropped call issues for this call. I dial Mom and Bill's land line. She answers very cheerily.
I screech.
"I got your insipid letter and want you to know that I read exactly one sentence before I got rid of it. I have no interest in ever hearing from you again. Do not contact me."
And this time I got to slam the phone into its cradle. Very satisfying.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Fanning the Flames
While at Scott's for the weekend, I reconsider the shelves. I still don't want them, still would sooner burn down the house than hang them in it, still seethe at the very concept of them having been gifted under duress, but I may not need to send them back.
Scott suggests (for the second time) that I burn them in the fireplace. He has a neat-o ventless thing for this purpose that miraculously heats his whole house, and looks beautiful doing so. (I told you he has cool toys. J. couldn't even get electric and gas service without a countersignature from a guarantor, much less get inventive with an aesthetic solution).
We get moving on a day full of activities - new jet ski to buy, an iPad to purchase from a stranger on Craig's List who will meet us at a nearby Dunkin Donuts, banking to do, a visit to the grocery store to complete dinner menus that require shopping. And all the while, the shelves sit quietly in the back of the SUV sending hateful vibes to me. I fight the overpowering urge to simply chuck them in the Bay from the speeding car while crossing the bridge.
Scott thinks I should think a little more about sending them back. He will go along with whatever I decide, natch, but wonders if I am stirring a boiling pot with this insolent gesture. I kind of want to stir the pot. I want to send a message (Luca Brazzi sleeps with the fishes and so do your stinking shelves!) and maybe even a note. I want to say that I know what transpired, and all that was discussed as these shelves made their way to me. And I want them to know they are busted. Caught making disparaging comments about me.
Scott thinks that if I send them, I should skip the note. Sending them back will make the point all on its own. A note will inflame. The five year old in me wants to inflame.
From my ethical fork in the road, I text Charlotte, my moral compass. I ask her "Should I poke the bear and send back the shelves, or should I just pitch them?"
She replies that sending them back will probably eliminate any hope of ever reasoning with Mom, however slim and flimsy that hope is.
I call her and talk through a decision. I won't keep the GD shelves, but for now, I won't mail them.
Even now the shelves remain in Scott's car. Unless he's taken matters into his own capable hands and used them to heat his home.
Scott suggests (for the second time) that I burn them in the fireplace. He has a neat-o ventless thing for this purpose that miraculously heats his whole house, and looks beautiful doing so. (I told you he has cool toys. J. couldn't even get electric and gas service without a countersignature from a guarantor, much less get inventive with an aesthetic solution).
We get moving on a day full of activities - new jet ski to buy, an iPad to purchase from a stranger on Craig's List who will meet us at a nearby Dunkin Donuts, banking to do, a visit to the grocery store to complete dinner menus that require shopping. And all the while, the shelves sit quietly in the back of the SUV sending hateful vibes to me. I fight the overpowering urge to simply chuck them in the Bay from the speeding car while crossing the bridge.
Scott thinks I should think a little more about sending them back. He will go along with whatever I decide, natch, but wonders if I am stirring a boiling pot with this insolent gesture. I kind of want to stir the pot. I want to send a message (Luca Brazzi sleeps with the fishes and so do your stinking shelves!) and maybe even a note. I want to say that I know what transpired, and all that was discussed as these shelves made their way to me. And I want them to know they are busted. Caught making disparaging comments about me.
Scott thinks that if I send them, I should skip the note. Sending them back will make the point all on its own. A note will inflame. The five year old in me wants to inflame.
From my ethical fork in the road, I text Charlotte, my moral compass. I ask her "Should I poke the bear and send back the shelves, or should I just pitch them?"
She replies that sending them back will probably eliminate any hope of ever reasoning with Mom, however slim and flimsy that hope is.
I call her and talk through a decision. I won't keep the GD shelves, but for now, I won't mail them.
Even now the shelves remain in Scott's car. Unless he's taken matters into his own capable hands and used them to heat his home.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Open Wide and Say OUCH!
Before I make my brave return to the magic of voice mail to listen to the rest, it is the weekend. I pack up the stupid shelves Bill made and take them with me to Scott’s to mail back to Mom. Now that I know they were not given genuinely, I can not accept them. I don’t even want them in a box in the basement. And I won’t burn them in my fireplace because I am sure the fumes will choke me with their vileness. They are hateful talismans that will do nothing but inspire hateful thoughts and bid my blood to boil.
Clearly I am hormonal. I have an extra good reason to be.
Earlier in the week, I’d gotten a call from my Gynecology office. They’d called before and I’d called back and we’d been going round and round for some time. I secretly wished they’d just say “Your results are normal, call if you need a refill on your pills.” But they don’t. So one day, I just call back while it is on my mind.
It was not at all what I’d expected.
My results weren’t normal. I need more tests. And by the way, if you are in any way able, we’d like to see you tomorrow.
Tomorrow?
Things like this do not happen to me. My life is crazy. My job is a madhouse. My family is a never ending saga. But my health? Never was there a more steady ender than my health. I do not get abnormal test results. Ever.
I call Charlotte. Boo hoo about the whole thing. Mention the name of the tests. Of course she’s had one of each. No biggie.
I tell her my worst fear (or one of two, anyway) is that something heinous will happen to me and my children will be left to be raised by their insane father. They are doomed.
Without a missed beat, Charlotte says, “No. That won’t happen. God is not mean.” And to her, it is as simple as that. Gotta love Charlotte for that. I decide for my sense of sanity that she is way smarter about these things than I, and I will play by her manual.
The next day, at the appointed hour, I strip from the waist down and put on the paper dress. The lovely assistant comes in to ask me to sashay across the hall to pee in a cup. Of course I have peed just before the appointment and I tell her I have doubts. She insists. They need a pregnancy test before the real tests.
A what? Pregnancy test? Now THAT would be God being mean. The candles on the cake. I compliantly hop off the table and will myself to pee. Negatory, Big Ben. I privately thank God for not being mean this time.
And what follows that little painless task is 90 minutes of excruciating poking, jabbing, scraping, snipping, sampling, prodding and otherwise agitating all of my most tender girly parts. And you could not convince me that it was not being performed with farming equipment.
Two weeks. I have to wait two weeks to see if God is mean or just joking around.
Clearly I am hormonal. I have an extra good reason to be.
Earlier in the week, I’d gotten a call from my Gynecology office. They’d called before and I’d called back and we’d been going round and round for some time. I secretly wished they’d just say “Your results are normal, call if you need a refill on your pills.” But they don’t. So one day, I just call back while it is on my mind.
It was not at all what I’d expected.
My results weren’t normal. I need more tests. And by the way, if you are in any way able, we’d like to see you tomorrow.
Tomorrow?
Things like this do not happen to me. My life is crazy. My job is a madhouse. My family is a never ending saga. But my health? Never was there a more steady ender than my health. I do not get abnormal test results. Ever.
I call Charlotte. Boo hoo about the whole thing. Mention the name of the tests. Of course she’s had one of each. No biggie.
I tell her my worst fear (or one of two, anyway) is that something heinous will happen to me and my children will be left to be raised by their insane father. They are doomed.
Without a missed beat, Charlotte says, “No. That won’t happen. God is not mean.” And to her, it is as simple as that. Gotta love Charlotte for that. I decide for my sense of sanity that she is way smarter about these things than I, and I will play by her manual.
The next day, at the appointed hour, I strip from the waist down and put on the paper dress. The lovely assistant comes in to ask me to sashay across the hall to pee in a cup. Of course I have peed just before the appointment and I tell her I have doubts. She insists. They need a pregnancy test before the real tests.
A what? Pregnancy test? Now THAT would be God being mean. The candles on the cake. I compliantly hop off the table and will myself to pee. Negatory, Big Ben. I privately thank God for not being mean this time.
And what follows that little painless task is 90 minutes of excruciating poking, jabbing, scraping, snipping, sampling, prodding and otherwise agitating all of my most tender girly parts. And you could not convince me that it was not being performed with farming equipment.
Two weeks. I have to wait two weeks to see if God is mean or just joking around.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
St. Bill the Wanderer
Out of curiosity, I make myself listen to the insipid message.
As we know, it is largely a question of what my plans are for her. Where she stands. If I want her in my life.
Loaded questions all. I don’t think a child should have to answer that at any age. I don’t think a parent should ever think those thoughts. But maybe that is just how I believe parents should be.
Moving on to the next topic, she notes that she is extremely happy for me and Scott and our family. (Though it would be tricky to discern her happiness from her crankiness.) She wants me to think back to all the times she was on my side.
Shouldn’t she have been? And not for anything, Ma, but I’ve defended you for decades. And that wasn’t always an easy thing. The difference is, I am not expecting a payback.
She wants to remind me that Bill has ALWAYS been generous – and here is the point where I decide she must have gone mad – “not only with money, but with his time.”
Is she talking about the same Bill? We-don’t-have-a-prenup-your-brother-isn’t-getting-anything-from-me-that-money-is-all-mine-I’ll-take-it-with-me-to-Hell-itself Bill?
I can’t remember even a single instance where money has passed from Bill to me, even through Mom’s hands…unless of course you are talking about $20 to take myself out to lunch on my birthday or something like that. Money has never played a starring role in our relationship. It isn’t even a walk-on extra.
And time? She must be delusional. My most stinging recollection of a moment of clarity about Bill was when I realized that he left town when I visited.
A few years ago, when Hil and Pat were daycare ages, I worked part time. Every other week, I had Wednesday and Thursday off from work. Mom had moved for the second time by then and was living in a cute university town on a river about 2 hours away. I would routinely pack a bag for me and the kids, schlep some of their gear to the car, prepare snacks for the road, and after work on Tuesday, I’d trek down the highway with the kids to visit for a few days. Breeze home in time for dinner on Thursday. Spend the interim doing fun things with Mom and the kids.
And then I noticed a pattern. Bill would be in bed when I got there – and he’d be gone in the morning before I rose. Mom would tell me his friend was doing this or that and he was going to join him for a few days, or another friend was visiting a nearby place and Bill was going to take him fishing, or some other pressing thing was taking him somewhere else, conveniently for the two very days I was visiting.
For nearly 18 months this went on. I would visit, he would scram. The only time he didn’t was when I brought Lars with me for Easter. He even did it when I visited the next house they bought. And I only went there once. And let's not even pretend that last year's visit to the cottage was to see me and the kids. That was simply a convenient place to sleep while they were house hunting, and the trip was conveniently and abruptly cut short in favor of hunting elsewhere.
Blood a-boil again, I click the “end’ button to save the rest of the message for when I am not so likely to throw up at my desk.
As we know, it is largely a question of what my plans are for her. Where she stands. If I want her in my life.
Loaded questions all. I don’t think a child should have to answer that at any age. I don’t think a parent should ever think those thoughts. But maybe that is just how I believe parents should be.
Moving on to the next topic, she notes that she is extremely happy for me and Scott and our family. (Though it would be tricky to discern her happiness from her crankiness.) She wants me to think back to all the times she was on my side.
Shouldn’t she have been? And not for anything, Ma, but I’ve defended you for decades. And that wasn’t always an easy thing. The difference is, I am not expecting a payback.
She wants to remind me that Bill has ALWAYS been generous – and here is the point where I decide she must have gone mad – “not only with money, but with his time.”
Is she talking about the same Bill? We-don’t-have-a-prenup-your-brother-isn’t-getting-anything-from-me-that-money-is-all-mine-I’ll-take-it-with-me-to-Hell-itself Bill?
I can’t remember even a single instance where money has passed from Bill to me, even through Mom’s hands…unless of course you are talking about $20 to take myself out to lunch on my birthday or something like that. Money has never played a starring role in our relationship. It isn’t even a walk-on extra.
And time? She must be delusional. My most stinging recollection of a moment of clarity about Bill was when I realized that he left town when I visited.
A few years ago, when Hil and Pat were daycare ages, I worked part time. Every other week, I had Wednesday and Thursday off from work. Mom had moved for the second time by then and was living in a cute university town on a river about 2 hours away. I would routinely pack a bag for me and the kids, schlep some of their gear to the car, prepare snacks for the road, and after work on Tuesday, I’d trek down the highway with the kids to visit for a few days. Breeze home in time for dinner on Thursday. Spend the interim doing fun things with Mom and the kids.
And then I noticed a pattern. Bill would be in bed when I got there – and he’d be gone in the morning before I rose. Mom would tell me his friend was doing this or that and he was going to join him for a few days, or another friend was visiting a nearby place and Bill was going to take him fishing, or some other pressing thing was taking him somewhere else, conveniently for the two very days I was visiting.
For nearly 18 months this went on. I would visit, he would scram. The only time he didn’t was when I brought Lars with me for Easter. He even did it when I visited the next house they bought. And I only went there once. And let's not even pretend that last year's visit to the cottage was to see me and the kids. That was simply a convenient place to sleep while they were house hunting, and the trip was conveniently and abruptly cut short in favor of hunting elsewhere.
Blood a-boil again, I click the “end’ button to save the rest of the message for when I am not so likely to throw up at my desk.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
My Oprah Aha Moment
Eventually Charlotte and Mom connect. Charlotte texts me an update.
Of course Mom railed against my bad behavior. I did behave badly. Blame me! There is no one who's innocent here. Just as Mom used to say, "If someone hits you, hit him back."
I had not listened to the whole message Mom had left even yet. Evidently she had gone on about needing to know where she stands with me.
Is she kidding with this nonsense? Isn't THAT a revealing question to have asked!
She needs to know where she stands. How very rich. That is a question you might ask a boyfriend you want to date exclusively and wonder if he might feel that way, too. That might be something you discuss with a supervisor when you are not sure your job performance is viewed favorably. It might be a topic of discussion when you are reconciling with a spouse and you are uncertain about his or her feelings about how things are going since you decided to patch things up one more time for the kids' sake. That is not a question you ask of your children.
Ever.
There is never a need.
I am not saying families don't fall apart. I am not suggesting that families don't have rifts and take sides. Every family does. Tensions. Hurt feelings. Someone getting left out of a will. Sides taken in divorces. But children are forever.
A parent loves - or at least so I thought - unconditionally. I will love my children, bags and baggage, foul mouths, insolence, tattoos, arrest records, suspensions for streaking at basketball games, misappropriation of my vehicle, broken curfews, poorly chosen mates, bad fashion statements, crimes against humanity and all. No matter what. I may not like them. I may not appreciate their actions. I may not approve of all they do. I may not agree with their beliefs at all times. But I will always, without question, love them, sacrifice for them, adore them, want the best for them, and pray for them, fervently. I will never wonder where I stand with them. It will always be immaterial to me whether or not they return any of what I give them from my heart. Because there is never even the whiff - not a threat - not a notion - that my love for them or willingness to extend myself to them or for them - depends upon that same love being returned.
But evidently, Mom does not subscribe to that thinking. And knowing that, I have a little more clarity on her conduct throughout our lives. Conduct that has often been baffling.
And oddly, I am not upset or moved to tears. I am not even angry. I suppose this is not news. I have known this on some level all along. A relationship with Mom was always tenuous. It could snap like a thread at any moment, for any reason, great or small.
And strangely, I have comfort in having evidence to substantiate that idea. Not that I ever thought about wondering, but I guess I know where I stand.
Of course Mom railed against my bad behavior. I did behave badly. Blame me! There is no one who's innocent here. Just as Mom used to say, "If someone hits you, hit him back."
I had not listened to the whole message Mom had left even yet. Evidently she had gone on about needing to know where she stands with me.
Is she kidding with this nonsense? Isn't THAT a revealing question to have asked!
She needs to know where she stands. How very rich. That is a question you might ask a boyfriend you want to date exclusively and wonder if he might feel that way, too. That might be something you discuss with a supervisor when you are not sure your job performance is viewed favorably. It might be a topic of discussion when you are reconciling with a spouse and you are uncertain about his or her feelings about how things are going since you decided to patch things up one more time for the kids' sake. That is not a question you ask of your children.
Ever.
There is never a need.
I am not saying families don't fall apart. I am not suggesting that families don't have rifts and take sides. Every family does. Tensions. Hurt feelings. Someone getting left out of a will. Sides taken in divorces. But children are forever.
A parent loves - or at least so I thought - unconditionally. I will love my children, bags and baggage, foul mouths, insolence, tattoos, arrest records, suspensions for streaking at basketball games, misappropriation of my vehicle, broken curfews, poorly chosen mates, bad fashion statements, crimes against humanity and all. No matter what. I may not like them. I may not appreciate their actions. I may not approve of all they do. I may not agree with their beliefs at all times. But I will always, without question, love them, sacrifice for them, adore them, want the best for them, and pray for them, fervently. I will never wonder where I stand with them. It will always be immaterial to me whether or not they return any of what I give them from my heart. Because there is never even the whiff - not a threat - not a notion - that my love for them or willingness to extend myself to them or for them - depends upon that same love being returned.
But evidently, Mom does not subscribe to that thinking. And knowing that, I have a little more clarity on her conduct throughout our lives. Conduct that has often been baffling.
And oddly, I am not upset or moved to tears. I am not even angry. I suppose this is not news. I have known this on some level all along. A relationship with Mom was always tenuous. It could snap like a thread at any moment, for any reason, great or small.
And strangely, I have comfort in having evidence to substantiate that idea. Not that I ever thought about wondering, but I guess I know where I stand.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
A Three Ring Circus
Eventually, I connect with Charlotte. She has missed two calls from Mom. Hello, Mom, we are all working and really can't make your meltdown a priority at the moment.
Charlotte, dutiful as ever, believes she will have to return the call. It is never clear to me whether she does this out of a sense of duty or a need to avoid further wrath for not doing so. We are different this way. I don't feel a sense of obligation and don't really care about the wrath. Call, write, get in your car and drive to my house from the Sunny South. Your hissy fit doesn't mean I have to have one.
She asks me if I feel differently now about her sharing all of Bill's nasty comments with Mom. And actually, I do. Mom wants to take me to task for a "cold reception" when a) it was not cold, it was cordial. If she were looking for tears of joy she needs to get to know her kids better, and b) if it was cold, perhaps it was warranted, based on the level of love and affection I evidently enjoy from their camp. Am I supposed to kiss the ass that dumps all over me when I am not there? (I really didn't intend to conjure up that visual image, sorry.)
And during this conversation Charlotte reveals one more little tidbit.(which makes me think there are dozens more that she has spared me from having to deal with) And of course it has to do with the flippin' shelves.
She says that Bill told her that he really didn't want to give me any of the G-D shelves, and that Estelle made him but do it, but he can't bring himself to do it so he asked Charlotte to pick out two for Mom to give to me.
And he was complaining about the level of enthusiasm in my expression of gratitude?
I tell her that if she feels it will make a difference, she has the green light to spill all the beans she sees fit to spill. But I caution her. Mom has made a lifetime of bad choices when it came to men with whom to share her life. Over and over, she chose men, perhaps my Dad included, who could take care of her financially, or from whom she could get what she needed - a roof over her head, a car, club memebership, whatever - but who were not necessarily good to her or for her in other ways. The hand-in-glove relationship would be solidified by the fact that she would look presentable on their arms, or dote on them and take care of them. Keep a nice home. Participate in their stupid hobbies. Indulge them. They would come to need each other.
And for that reason, Mom will not believe what Charlotte says about Bill because she'd have to confront him. And that places her very livelihood at risk. So to make it all make sense, she will have to turn the tables on Charlotte. Make her out to be a liar. A troublemaker. In cahoots with her wicked sister.
She still has the green light, but with a caution flag. I don't want her to place herself in peril without knowing the full weight of the risk.
Charlotte, dutiful as ever, believes she will have to return the call. It is never clear to me whether she does this out of a sense of duty or a need to avoid further wrath for not doing so. We are different this way. I don't feel a sense of obligation and don't really care about the wrath. Call, write, get in your car and drive to my house from the Sunny South. Your hissy fit doesn't mean I have to have one.
She asks me if I feel differently now about her sharing all of Bill's nasty comments with Mom. And actually, I do. Mom wants to take me to task for a "cold reception" when a) it was not cold, it was cordial. If she were looking for tears of joy she needs to get to know her kids better, and b) if it was cold, perhaps it was warranted, based on the level of love and affection I evidently enjoy from their camp. Am I supposed to kiss the ass that dumps all over me when I am not there? (I really didn't intend to conjure up that visual image, sorry.)
And during this conversation Charlotte reveals one more little tidbit.(which makes me think there are dozens more that she has spared me from having to deal with) And of course it has to do with the flippin' shelves.
She says that Bill told her that he really didn't want to give me any of the G-D shelves, and that Estelle made him but do it, but he can't bring himself to do it so he asked Charlotte to pick out two for Mom to give to me.
And he was complaining about the level of enthusiasm in my expression of gratitude?
I tell her that if she feels it will make a difference, she has the green light to spill all the beans she sees fit to spill. But I caution her. Mom has made a lifetime of bad choices when it came to men with whom to share her life. Over and over, she chose men, perhaps my Dad included, who could take care of her financially, or from whom she could get what she needed - a roof over her head, a car, club memebership, whatever - but who were not necessarily good to her or for her in other ways. The hand-in-glove relationship would be solidified by the fact that she would look presentable on their arms, or dote on them and take care of them. Keep a nice home. Participate in their stupid hobbies. Indulge them. They would come to need each other.
And for that reason, Mom will not believe what Charlotte says about Bill because she'd have to confront him. And that places her very livelihood at risk. So to make it all make sense, she will have to turn the tables on Charlotte. Make her out to be a liar. A troublemaker. In cahoots with her wicked sister.
She still has the green light, but with a caution flag. I don't want her to place herself in peril without knowing the full weight of the risk.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Achey Breaky Eardrum
I believe that at the moment I heard my mother's sing songy voice (when moments ago she would like me to believe she'd been moved to tears) was the precise moment that I parted company with my sense of sanity.
My reply to the melodious "Hello" was a barking command. "First of all, don't call me at work with these ridiculous boo hooing messages. I am too busy for that crap!"
Not my finest moment of diplomacy, for sure.
But Mom's response confirmed everything. The crying was fake. The sentiment was fake. The sweet "hello" was fake. She went from sing-songy to gnashing in a split second. Not that I blame her. I sort of set her up for that. But what is hilarious is the fact that she switched gears on the dime. It was where she expected to be. Perhaps where she'd been all along. She'd expected a fight and had trained for it. But so had I. 40 plus years of dealing with Mom is the best boot camp money can buy.
She screeches, in a voice that could peel paint, that I am nothing but a cold hearted bitch, and while she tries to continue you, I snark in an equally loud but more sarcastic than caustic voice,"Why???? Because I didn't kiss your weirdo husband on the mouth?"
I am not sure she heard me over all of her outrageous ranting but it felt good to say it. And while she continued to name call and scream in a frequency that doesn't transmit well on a cell phone, I yelled, "Don't ever call me about this again, I don't care what you think," and promptly disconnected the call, again, without the satisfaction of slamming. (Note to self: Develop and sell ringtones that one can buy to note that a call has been disconnected. Possible "tones" shall include breaking glass, flying bowling pins, car crashes, air horns, and blunt force impact noises of all kinds, e.g. clunking human heads.)
I am shaking. I text Charlotte. "just had words with mom"
I am too shaky to bother with capitalization or punctuation.
My phone buzzes to life, ringing in my hand. I think it is Charlotte.
Incredulously, it is my mother calling back.
I pick up and immediately she is ranting. I do not comprehend a single syllable, and instead yell, hopefully over the voice that causes seismic shifts deep in the Earth's crust, "ARE YOU LOOKING FOR ANOTHER LETTER??????!!!!!!" and promptly hang up.
And with that, I grab my notebook and stride out the door for some fresh air - hoping to clear my head en route to my next meeting.
My reply to the melodious "Hello" was a barking command. "First of all, don't call me at work with these ridiculous boo hooing messages. I am too busy for that crap!"
Not my finest moment of diplomacy, for sure.
But Mom's response confirmed everything. The crying was fake. The sentiment was fake. The sweet "hello" was fake. She went from sing-songy to gnashing in a split second. Not that I blame her. I sort of set her up for that. But what is hilarious is the fact that she switched gears on the dime. It was where she expected to be. Perhaps where she'd been all along. She'd expected a fight and had trained for it. But so had I. 40 plus years of dealing with Mom is the best boot camp money can buy.
She screeches, in a voice that could peel paint, that I am nothing but a cold hearted bitch, and while she tries to continue you, I snark in an equally loud but more sarcastic than caustic voice,"Why???? Because I didn't kiss your weirdo husband on the mouth?"
I am not sure she heard me over all of her outrageous ranting but it felt good to say it. And while she continued to name call and scream in a frequency that doesn't transmit well on a cell phone, I yelled, "Don't ever call me about this again, I don't care what you think," and promptly disconnected the call, again, without the satisfaction of slamming. (Note to self: Develop and sell ringtones that one can buy to note that a call has been disconnected. Possible "tones" shall include breaking glass, flying bowling pins, car crashes, air horns, and blunt force impact noises of all kinds, e.g. clunking human heads.)
I am shaking. I text Charlotte. "just had words with mom"
I am too shaky to bother with capitalization or punctuation.
My phone buzzes to life, ringing in my hand. I think it is Charlotte.
Incredulously, it is my mother calling back.
I pick up and immediately she is ranting. I do not comprehend a single syllable, and instead yell, hopefully over the voice that causes seismic shifts deep in the Earth's crust, "ARE YOU LOOKING FOR ANOTHER LETTER??????!!!!!!" and promptly hang up.
And with that, I grab my notebook and stride out the door for some fresh air - hoping to clear my head en route to my next meeting.
Friday, February 3, 2012
Slamma Lamma Ding Dong
It starts out normally. Well, at least the first three words. Normal greeting. Normal tone of voice. The same intonation I've heard thousands of times before.
"Liza, it's Mom."
And that is precisely the point at which it went spinning off in the general direction of Hell, like so many other conversations I've had with equally crazy people.
First, the normal tone of voice devolves into the fake crying I've come to recognize from past manipulative phone calls and messages. It is infuriating. My blood boils from the very first syllable.
"You know, I was looking through some of my memory boxes today... sniff sniff...."
Gag me. Memory boxes? Mom, you have thrown away more things in more moves than a homeless man with his world in a shopping cart, and you expect me to believe you kept the ashtray I made from a seashell in Brownie Camp when you've pitched entire rooms full of furniture? Please.
She continues through the fake tears of sentimentality as she launches into the real reason for her call...a carefully planned, if not scripted segue. She sounds as though she might be reading the whole speech. I am pacing the office now, mashing down the carpet pile.
"You used to write such lovely things to me. And I am so hurt about - what I felt - Bill and I both - a very cold reception from you at Christmas..."
And with that I boil over like an abandoned pot of pasta.
I click the "end" button on the touch screen on my iPhone. Very unsatisfying. Slamming would have felt more appropriate.
I walk across the room trying not to sound like I am Fee-Fi-Fo-Fumming as I do. I take great care not to slam my door (difficult when I haven't had the satisfaction of slamming the phone into the cradle.)
As is my habit when I am about to chew someone's face off, I walk to my window to face the sun through the glass as I hit "Call Back."
Mom answers on one ring, the tears having dissipated, and sounding as happy and chipper as a blue bird in spring.
That lasts until I speak my first words.
"Liza, it's Mom."
And that is precisely the point at which it went spinning off in the general direction of Hell, like so many other conversations I've had with equally crazy people.
First, the normal tone of voice devolves into the fake crying I've come to recognize from past manipulative phone calls and messages. It is infuriating. My blood boils from the very first syllable.
"You know, I was looking through some of my memory boxes today... sniff sniff...."
Gag me. Memory boxes? Mom, you have thrown away more things in more moves than a homeless man with his world in a shopping cart, and you expect me to believe you kept the ashtray I made from a seashell in Brownie Camp when you've pitched entire rooms full of furniture? Please.
She continues through the fake tears of sentimentality as she launches into the real reason for her call...a carefully planned, if not scripted segue. She sounds as though she might be reading the whole speech. I am pacing the office now, mashing down the carpet pile.
"You used to write such lovely things to me. And I am so hurt about - what I felt - Bill and I both - a very cold reception from you at Christmas..."
And with that I boil over like an abandoned pot of pasta.
I click the "end" button on the touch screen on my iPhone. Very unsatisfying. Slamming would have felt more appropriate.
I walk across the room trying not to sound like I am Fee-Fi-Fo-Fumming as I do. I take great care not to slam my door (difficult when I haven't had the satisfaction of slamming the phone into the cradle.)
As is my habit when I am about to chew someone's face off, I walk to my window to face the sun through the glass as I hit "Call Back."
Mom answers on one ring, the tears having dissipated, and sounding as happy and chipper as a blue bird in spring.
That lasts until I speak my first words.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Phoney Baloney
Life plods on. Another day, another dollar. Another salad, another weigh in. I try on clothes, I suck in my gut, I pack my suitcase with what I can stand to look at myself wearing.
It's a brand new year, and I am on my game at work. Updating policies. Improving processes. Proposing solutions. Finishing projects. Taking on new work. Peeking at job boards just because I can.
Things are chugging right along one day - I am buzzing through a mandatory on line Confidentiality and Privacy training class. Zzzzzzzzzzz. The point, click, read, select and answer, click "next" monotony suddenly broken by the familiar nerve-jangling ring tone of my cell phone.
Mom.
This class is supposed to take 70 minutes. I only have 60 as it is. I don't answer. Some time later, I get the familiar (and dreaded)jingle-jangle-jingle of the "you-have voicemail" notification. Unless there is some cosmic delay imposed on the transmission of hateful messages, this one is a long one, not unlike the last. Oh goody.
I ignore it. I have to finish the class.
And as if some cosmic whammy had been visited upon me, not two minutes later, I run into a problem with the class. The next module will not open.
Under any other circumstances I would be on my knees thanking all the powers that be for the technological intervention. Any other day, I'd be rejoicing the excuse to avoid the obligation to complete the class. The grown up version of the dog eating your homework.
But not today. Today I am looking for an excuse to avoid the message (after having deftly avoided the call, ahem.) I devote myself, heart and soul to diagnosing and fixing the problem with the training class and completing it - on deadline. Better act fast. No time for distractions like personal phone calls.
I call our system administrator. I explain the problem. I attempt what he suggests. It doesn't work. I call back. I tell him what happened this time. I offer to wait on the phone while he calls the vendor on the other line. He comes back. He tells me the solution. I hang up and immediately set about doing what he told me to do. It doesn't work. I swear under my breath. I call back. He puts me on hold. He tells me something different to do. I get off the phone and do it. It doesn't work. I call the system administrator again. He tells me to skip it. He'll get it fixed.
Noooooooo! I have only burned off 20 minutes! I have 20 more until my next meeting (15 if I take the long way) and that leaves me with no excuse not to pick up the voice mail.
I don't know why I do this to myself. I listen to the first 15 seconds of Mom's message and want to throw the phone out the window. And then dive out after it.
It's a brand new year, and I am on my game at work. Updating policies. Improving processes. Proposing solutions. Finishing projects. Taking on new work. Peeking at job boards just because I can.
Things are chugging right along one day - I am buzzing through a mandatory on line Confidentiality and Privacy training class. Zzzzzzzzzzz. The point, click, read, select and answer, click "next" monotony suddenly broken by the familiar nerve-jangling ring tone of my cell phone.
Mom.
This class is supposed to take 70 minutes. I only have 60 as it is. I don't answer. Some time later, I get the familiar (and dreaded)jingle-jangle-jingle of the "you-have voicemail" notification. Unless there is some cosmic delay imposed on the transmission of hateful messages, this one is a long one, not unlike the last. Oh goody.
I ignore it. I have to finish the class.
And as if some cosmic whammy had been visited upon me, not two minutes later, I run into a problem with the class. The next module will not open.
Under any other circumstances I would be on my knees thanking all the powers that be for the technological intervention. Any other day, I'd be rejoicing the excuse to avoid the obligation to complete the class. The grown up version of the dog eating your homework.
But not today. Today I am looking for an excuse to avoid the message (after having deftly avoided the call, ahem.) I devote myself, heart and soul to diagnosing and fixing the problem with the training class and completing it - on deadline. Better act fast. No time for distractions like personal phone calls.
I call our system administrator. I explain the problem. I attempt what he suggests. It doesn't work. I call back. I tell him what happened this time. I offer to wait on the phone while he calls the vendor on the other line. He comes back. He tells me the solution. I hang up and immediately set about doing what he told me to do. It doesn't work. I swear under my breath. I call back. He puts me on hold. He tells me something different to do. I get off the phone and do it. It doesn't work. I call the system administrator again. He tells me to skip it. He'll get it fixed.
Noooooooo! I have only burned off 20 minutes! I have 20 more until my next meeting (15 if I take the long way) and that leaves me with no excuse not to pick up the voice mail.
I don't know why I do this to myself. I listen to the first 15 seconds of Mom's message and want to throw the phone out the window. And then dive out after it.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
A Carboholic Intervention, Please
So I got back on the proverbial bike and spent another two weeks eating weird food, missing all things crunchy and craving dinner rolls. The good news was that there was no moratorium on high fat foods. So long as there were no carbs involved, it was on the Approved list. Cheese. Bacon. Eggs. Pastrami. Just so long as I didn't put any of it between two slices of bread.
And eventually it all paid off. My shiny new scale proved tried and true. I lost the additional phantom 10 pounds. I whittled myself down from a size eight to a size four. And I got into a groove about finding things I could eat from a restaurant menu, on the Boardwalk at the beach and at parties. I could do this for the rest of my life without announcing to everyone that I AM ON A DIET.
The good news was that I felt like a powerhouse. You never know how lousy lots of sugar or other carbs make you feel until you reduce their predominance in your diet. Then when you eat that birthday cake you feel like you spent the day before drinking irresponsible amounts of tequila. Not eating the cakes and the cookies, and the pasta and the soft pretzels and the hoagies is a nice relief from the leaden, bloated, sickening feeling one gets from over indulging. The trade off is I can eat thousands of calories of low carb foods - literally stuff myself with them - and feel like Olive Oyl in the morning. It is the perfect diet for people with no self control or will power.
And you can drink.
OK you can't drink everything. You have to drink low carb beers (So forget those dark chewy delicious Belgians. They are way out of bounds.) But so long as there is no sugary mixer (God bless the inventor of such things as diet tonic, sugar free lemonade, and caffeine free Diet Coke). I can enjoy a no carb Gin and Tonic, a guilt free Lynchburg Lemonade (also known as a Jack Rabbit Slim for those of you up on your Skinny Girl Cocktails) or a Rum and Coke that won't keep me awake until Tuesday. All while remaining on my Very Effective Diet.
It is a perfect perfect thing. The best part of all was that after I slimmed myself down to a fabulous new size and shape, Kate disclosed that the diet she had recommended was not an actual diet. She may have gotten the numbers wrong. Five grams of carbs is a little extreme. I let her live - but only because we both looked fabulous and there is nothing better than both of you looking fabulous.
So why now, when I had once dropped to an alarming size zero with a disturbingly boney appearance during my Marital Discord Diet, and then rebounded to a fabulous size 2, and have remained there despite my gain of 4 pounds of Christmas Cookie Fat, why am I finding it so difficult to stay on strict low carb diet when it is so important to me that I do????
And eventually it all paid off. My shiny new scale proved tried and true. I lost the additional phantom 10 pounds. I whittled myself down from a size eight to a size four. And I got into a groove about finding things I could eat from a restaurant menu, on the Boardwalk at the beach and at parties. I could do this for the rest of my life without announcing to everyone that I AM ON A DIET.
The good news was that I felt like a powerhouse. You never know how lousy lots of sugar or other carbs make you feel until you reduce their predominance in your diet. Then when you eat that birthday cake you feel like you spent the day before drinking irresponsible amounts of tequila. Not eating the cakes and the cookies, and the pasta and the soft pretzels and the hoagies is a nice relief from the leaden, bloated, sickening feeling one gets from over indulging. The trade off is I can eat thousands of calories of low carb foods - literally stuff myself with them - and feel like Olive Oyl in the morning. It is the perfect diet for people with no self control or will power.
And you can drink.
OK you can't drink everything. You have to drink low carb beers (So forget those dark chewy delicious Belgians. They are way out of bounds.) But so long as there is no sugary mixer (God bless the inventor of such things as diet tonic, sugar free lemonade, and caffeine free Diet Coke). I can enjoy a no carb Gin and Tonic, a guilt free Lynchburg Lemonade (also known as a Jack Rabbit Slim for those of you up on your Skinny Girl Cocktails) or a Rum and Coke that won't keep me awake until Tuesday. All while remaining on my Very Effective Diet.
It is a perfect perfect thing. The best part of all was that after I slimmed myself down to a fabulous new size and shape, Kate disclosed that the diet she had recommended was not an actual diet. She may have gotten the numbers wrong. Five grams of carbs is a little extreme. I let her live - but only because we both looked fabulous and there is nothing better than both of you looking fabulous.
So why now, when I had once dropped to an alarming size zero with a disturbingly boney appearance during my Marital Discord Diet, and then rebounded to a fabulous size 2, and have remained there despite my gain of 4 pounds of Christmas Cookie Fat, why am I finding it so difficult to stay on strict low carb diet when it is so important to me that I do????
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