Captain’s Log: Hate Date – 11/15/2013

My aunt left this morning. Marta, her name. She ran off with her two little pups, Genevieve, some mutt that has brown blurry spots in it’s fur and yaps incessantly when ever I come through the door, and Jack, some Jack Russel – something else mix, the cute, calm and collected of the two, always carrying a dirty tennis ball or a small plastic bone in his mouth. They are Ghost’s, my sensitive and rambunctious yellow lab, best friends. And now Ghost is all alone during the day, and mine and my father (Bob)’s obligation to spend time with my mother has just intensified.

my mom is reaching the end of her 5th year of a catastrophic health situation that started off simple and seemingly smart, but over time became very clear was not the wisest decision. One of those things so obvious now that a George W. Bush quote will satisfyingly sum it up: “Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice, we won’t be fooled again.” Basically, if i had a questionable white blood cell count, but was otherwise totally healthy, I definitely will not be talked into desperate measures such as a bone marrow transplant, or BMT. I don’t want to say the doctors lied to us, but that is exactly what I want to say they did. Either they really had no real grasp of the consequences of Graft vs. Hose Disease, or GVHD, or they were so excited for another opportunity to be a hero-God they didn’t care. Either way, my mom’s life has been destroyed from the effects of the BMT, but her white blood cell count is back to normal. Success? It seems the City of Hope thinks so.

So long story short, my mother, Donna, one of the smartest and kindest people I’ve ever known, is now a bitter and confused woman, seemingly way beyond her 65 years, so much so that Bob gets mistaken as her son often enough. She is suffering from an oscillating fit of dementia, is unable to walk (and unable to understand that she needs physical therapy every day if she wants to come home), unwilling to eat much, forlorn and manipulative, spends most of her days on her back watching cable television, nodding out, at The Californian , a convalescent home in Pasadena mostly inhabited by people at least 20 years older than her. This woman, who read a book a day while successfully leading a full time career as an attorney, who wrote her senior thesis in a single night about the relationship between Alice in Wonderland and the Theory of Relativity and had it passed around the professorial community at her university for it’s brilliance, is now barely able to understand a single sentence she reads. It’s fucked up. And she probably never even needed to go through the procedure that has crippled her mentally and physically. It was elective. And we got hosed. Our lives forever changed, especially her’s. So yeah, if my blood cells ever come up askew, give me some vitamins. I’m going back to work.

Now the point about my aunt. She moved down her to help out with the encumbrance of the situation for me and Bob, but i guess it was too much to bare and she split this morning. Life goes on, right? I hope it will for me.

That sounds melodramatic, but shit, this is ridiculous some times. I’m 30 and i work a day job at an office and live with my dad. I have no real career opportunities. I feel like all I can do is become a great writer and make a living that way. Pretty bold, i know, but it’s what I’m driven to do. And between this increased obligation to make sure my mother isn’t alone too much, and at the same time having to spend more time with Bob who’s obviously affected substantially by this, I’m not left with much time to live MY life.

At least it feels that way and I’m overcome with anxiety and pressure and despair more often than I feel is fair. My brother lives in Portland and hardly checks in, my sister is in another world (more literally than figuratively), my 21 year old niece has pretty much completely cut us off for some reason, and all the eager to help voices that were so ubiquitous when this whole thing started have pretty much silenced. I don’t think people can really comprehend what has happened. I’m asked often how mom is doing. I used to lie, or try to make the person feel good about themselves. “She’s doing better.” “Oh, we went out to a nice lunch yesterday.” “She asked about you.” No. That’s done. Now it’s “pretty shitty. It fucking sucks. She’s not getting better and she’s probably not coming home. Her body doesn’t know if it wants to live or die. It has settled for stasis.” Sorry. If that’s not the answer you wanted to hear then please don’t ask. I don’t like thinking about it, let alone talking about it.

Woe, is me. I just have to focus, compartmentalize my obligations, my goals, and my self. One thing at a time. At least I have fresh water to drink.

My main problem is letting my fucking phone and all it’s glory get in the way of what I want. First thing’s first, get a divorce. I’m eligible for a summary dissolution so that will make things a lot easier. Then I don’t have to deal with a girl freaking out anymore when I tell her I’m married. That’s never fun. It didn’t quite come out as the joke to everyone I thought the marriage would be.

That’s enough for today.


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