Classic Late Bloomer, Happily Divorced, Proud As Punch Mom and Grandmother. Attempting To Accept Golden Years As An Adventure Rather Than A Curse. Typical 21st Century Girl? Read on!
Even if Kubler- Ross had it right, this knowledge about the grief cycle is not helping me.
Physical and emotional losses have hit me like a ton of bricks in the last several years. I never denied them. I realized clearly what was going on; no denial was involved. Intractable pain is not something I could ignore or pretend that it wasn't happening. Banishment by former dear ones was also made undeniable. SMASHO!
And maybe that was the problem right from the start. Maybe if I had pondered the impossibility of these events I would have been better prepared for what came next. In any case I've been stuck at anger for far too long. Every morning the pain wakes me up, then literally brings me to what is left of my knees during the day, and crushes me into bed at night. Does this make me furious? You betcha! The emotional wounds by people I thought I knew better cause me to fantasize serious science fiction type torture for them all. Anger is what I've got these days. But, whoa, if I ever got hold of real weapons on an especially bad day; and there's no telling how much or how many I would annihilate.
Still, perhaps I've been lagging at this stage longer than is helpful.
I don't think bargaining is for me. No one I know is willing to change much less listen to what I'd need to say. Not much talking goes on in my sibling circle. Drama, yes. Photo opportunities, yes. Serious conversation, NEVER. Not with me anyway. Who knows what they are scared of. And there is no bargaining regarding medical care. I am poor, old, and over weight. Limitations prohibit any optional discussion. YIKES. Working around all this stuff is exhausting.
So what's left is acceptance. And, 'dear holy god and matrimony' I am trying. But, I am seriously considering the chain saw aisle at the big box.
Very bad week finally ended with an entirely too brief but incredibly welcome visit from two of my Darling Daughters and the Winsome Granddaughter. I must say that little girl is becoming even more of a delight. Dug her chubby baby toes into my tummy as she jounced around. Blew innumerable spit bubbles as we spoke fart noise/zerbit language to one another. My shirt was soaked and I loved every minute of it.
Next day long awaited visit from my Downstate Best Buddy. Tears, reminiscence, good Asian take-out, more tears, and solving most of the world's problems. (If only the guys in charge would listen to the elder women things would go much more smoothly. Alas, it is not to be.) Lots of hugs.
That night, in terror, I began the new drug regime. Blah, blah, blah. I woke up and was still alive. Okey dokey. I'll give this thing a shot. Gritted what's left of my teeth and swung both legs over the side of the mattress.
Yikes! The same pain in the same place with the same intensity. AND I knocked a pile of folded shirts onto the floor. Damn. Gimps will understand how a little goof up like that can spin a morning almost out of control. Let's just skip it. I soldiered on.
Kitchen to cobble together the usual breakfast. The margarine tub winds up on the floor. Who did THAT? It fell opened but right side up; so that really was a comparatively minor set back.
Hobble hobble hobble to the chair with coffee and toast. Sit-um-down gingerly adjusting for leg position. Place canes at the ready near the bookcase. KEE-RASH!! Glass container with rooting pothos smashes to the floor. Damn, damn, double damn,
I wasn't crazy about the vase and the plant was pilfered from the lobby anyway. But cleaning up this mess may take me the better part of the day. Reaching, bending, sweeping, carrying. All are chores that are on my "Almost Impossible To Accomplish" list. To say nothing of the microscopic glass shards I know are lurking.
Almost forgot! Sloshed half a cup of luke warm coffee all over my phone.
Never the less. It shall be done. Tune in next week.
Another week of beautiful weather.
Outside.
Where I rarely go.
Pain is such an inhibitor.
Fear also.
The breeze is incredibly enticing and windows are open wide.
I share what I can.
I am grateful.
Yes.
I am grateful.
A week on the blasted cell phone.
Trying to make contact.
Trying to understand.
Trying for answers.
Trying.
Trying is exhausting.
Especially when there is nothing to show for it.
This state of affairs masquerades as laziness or lassitude.
The fight begins before I am out of bed.
That doesn't count.
No space on the score card.
Get over it.
Go on.
Go.
I go to bed early. I doze. I read. I get up to pee. I look out the window. I rearrange blankets. I plan the next day's meals. I think about calls I have to make and emails I want to send. I cry. I pray. "Lather rinse, repeat" like the old instructions on a shampoo bottle.
And last night I listened to a brand new sound.
From the kitchen I am almost sure. Dripping? Crinkling? Munching? Oh God! Please NOT munching! If there are mice or rats I am going to get medieval in a particularly hideous old lady manner!
All the trash is double bagged. The only "food" not contained in fridge or cabinet are some new, red potatoes, two oranges and two kiwis. Counters are wiped and floors are as crumb free as possible. Yikes! Please not critters! There have been no signs and the noises go on for far too long. Wouldn't rodents chow down and move along?
It's not anything clinking in a breeze. The window is only open an inch or two and the night is still. All is calm. All is bright. Even the noisy plastic bags from the Big Box are stowed away. No other possible sources of a crinkle.
That leaves dripping as the only option I can imagine. But it's 3:15. If I limp out there to discover a huge puddle there is nothing I can do about it. And of course, I'd have to navigate a potential flood without slipping and crashing myself. How badly do I want the paramedics to see my massive self splayed on the soggy floor? Nope, nope, nope. Exploration can wait til daylight.
I listen more. Eventually I sleep. Cloudy morning. Since procrastination is my current favorite sport, I treat myself to another LUSH shower. Thank you, Eldest Daughter. I medicate. I dress. I hobble to the kitchen and find:
NOTHING!!! No puddles. No debris. Nothing moved or out of place. No nibble marks on the counter foodstuff. Nothing is even damp!
So, do I call maintenance and report a ghostly noisemaker? Or do I wait til the ceiling crashes in? Or do I do the Hokey Pokey?
I am not lazy. I like it clean. Picking stuff up is hard when I use both hands simply for balance. Sweeping? Which leg do I risk? If I let go the crutchy support, how long do I have before the knee gives way? So I do the best I can. I pace myself. I cry.
Today I did laundry. Today I folded laundry AND put it all away. I carried dishes back and forth from the counter to the table and back to the sink. I watered plants. I managed to get the empty body wash container into the trash basket with a minimum of hysteria. I figured out how to change out the stained glass.
This might not sound like much. Not for the normies out there. It was a lot for me. I'm not tired. Not even I get exhausted from such minimal physical exertion. It's the fear and the frustration and the shame that stress me out. My time is SO limited and there is always more to get done. Sundowning and drug interactions hobble me also.
Today I gave myself a reward. I burned some incense. I cobbled together a mini crab salad sandwich. And I made my first ever smoothie. Just for me. Just for being a good girl.
Yesterday I did something I have never done before in my life! I opened a package of new underpants, folded them, and placed them where I keep all my other underwear.
What made this an earth shattering, mind bending moment was this: These panties although granny styled through and through, were shiny, bright jewel colors AND slithery slinky, silky fabric! Ya Ha!
All my life I have worn huge cotton panties.
Why? Because I learned some very specific lessons growing up as a catholic fat girl. First of all, the occasion of sin was to be avoided at all costs. Silky panties definitely were in the sinful category. I was never sure why. I was pretty sure it had something to do with the way I'd sometimes feel kind of...well, unusual when I entertained certain thoughts. But, dearholyjesusandallthesaintsinheaven! This was a question NOT TO BE ASKED.
Also, colorful, silky panties cost extra. Money was not to be wasted on fat girls. I never questioned this rationale; in fact I doubt I was aware it existed. What I do know is when I started paying for my own panties I still couldn't bring myself to spend the extra money on cute under garments. I knew I wasn't worth it. Plain white cotton for me.
Finally, the only other person who should EVER be seeing me in my underwear was the doctor. So why in the name of god did I even need fancy schmancy panties????!!!! Enough said.
AND enough is enough! I desperately needed new underpants and I checked the "jewel tone, tricot/silk blend" box on the order form as fast as I could. Wrote my check and sealed the envelope before I could have second thoughts.
They came. They fit just fine. I haven't committed any sins that I am aware of. I don't feel especially pretty, but that would be asking an awful lot. I feel contained and I know all my jiggly bits are covered. I think they cost three dollars more than the white cotton units I usually buy. That's OK. I'm sixty years old. It's time I had the panties I want.
Special Note to my Monkey Reader: This post is not about blame. I know how important that is to you. It is about adult decisions. And it is about childhood lessons, intentional or inadvertent. I realize that "inadvertent" is a very big word. As Madonna says: "Look it up." Now I'm sipping my tea.
This is probably a result of watching too many doctor shows online.
But why couldn't it be a giant, honkin' tumor? Rip me open and scoop the damn thing out and chuck it in the trash. Huh?
Or why can't I just get the damn leg chopped off at the hip? Let somebody experiment on it. Bonus weight loss for me,eh?
Maybe the bloodwork will show a new disease that necessitates massive painkillers or injections of some kind. And then the doctor will get me into a fancy, schmancy clinical study somewhere. Or an up and coming medical reasearcher will want to glom onto my case to advance knowledge and save people.
But the truth is...
The actuality is that none of those options will occur.
This pain will go on forever and I will keep missing the good parts of life outside these walls. I used to be afraid of becoming one of those huge, bed bound freaks who can't leave their house because of their weight. I didn't ever suspect that I'd be locked in by the inability to walk. Well, I am not quite the hugest of freaks; but I am certainly bound. This leg. This pain. I am a prisoner.
...and then I watched a lot of Adele themed stuff online. I don't own a television and I lost the directions on how to download music to my little ipod shuffle thing; so I have been WAY out of the music loop. Plus old folks like me are not the target audience for anything even vaguely cutting edge. I rely on my trendy talented children and once a week Subterranean dosage to hone my musical listening chops.
In all my online browsing I kept coming across AdeleAdeleAdele. I had seen her "Hometown" video years ago (Years? Seriously?) when I was still at Mommy Dearest's and really liked it. Found out she was nominated for a boatload of Grammys and, just my luck, she WON a boatload of Grammys. I had to learn more.
My boyfriend Anderson Cooper had a pretty good interview with Adele on 60 Minutes. ALL of the other stuff I looked at made at least one weight related comment: "The singer appeared in a slimming long sleeved dress." Sheesh! I loved her big hair. Not crazy about the fake gold fingernails. Glammed up and gorgeous she was. And then she opened her mouth and this terrific voice came out and I was enthralled. And then, THIS morning I chanced upon the following
Oh! This cracked me up. There were a bunch of comments suggesting the video was faked somehow and that it wasn't even Adele. I don't care. On 60 Minutes she revealed how she planted imaginary scenarios with people who then leaked them to the tabloids and she caught their betraying asses and fired the pack of them. I thought that was pretty clever. Adele giggled. This girl bears watching and listening. She obviously has a twisted sense of humor.
Another criticism I kept seeing was that all her songs sound pretty much the same and are about broken hearts and getting dumped and having your heart broken. Sheesh Again! She's 23! Unlucky in love is a huge theme at that age. She can write about the perils of false teeth and snapping her hip joints when she's my age. Til then let's just let the gal explore in her ever so slimming couture.
One last thing: Today at my advanced and crotchety age my best jilted love song would go something like this:
You big shit bag!
No one is ever gonna care about you again in life!
I hope you cry every single day, you fucking turd creature!
You will never be happy again and then you will die slowly!
You will rot in hell with all the other pus dripping horrors!
Obviously writing lyrics is not my strong suit. Let Miss Adele grow and mellow. You don't want to deal with the likes of me.
I really want the snowstorm post to stand on its own. I am livid right now, but not surprised, and wanted to get this in while it's hot. If this is considered plus size -which is PC for
