09-14-2014, 07:35 AM
The trip looms large on the horizon. And one salient fact sends shivers of dread down my spine: I will be spending 17 days in close proximity to my mother. Not only will I be in my mother’s company, I will be her primary care giver. I’ll be the one looking out for her needs and wants, making sure she is comfortable, that I anticipate and correct potential problems that will make her life difficult.
It is my irony nightmare.
Oh, boo hoo, poor Greg and his first world problems. The benighted little lamb has to go to Ireland and take care of his mummy. I know. ‘Ungrateful Son’ will be in large letters on my tombstone.
When this trip idea was first broached by my father, I was ecstatic. Who doesn’t want a trip overseas? Then he said my mother would be going and the sails went windless.
What? Mom’s going? Wasn’t there a moratorium on travel for mom since it is very difficult for her and everyone around her when she travels? Hasn’t mom said on repeated occasions she doesn’t want to go to Ireland since she has already been to Ireland and would rather go someplace new and different? These statements are true and yet there I was adding her name to the booking requests.
Despite all the aforementioned statements, my mother is also a very jealous woman. She doesn’t want to be left out of anything no matter how little she might want to be doing that particular thing. Think Glen Close screaming “I’m not going to be ignored” in Fatal Attraction, only not that pleasant.
So, my mom is on the trip. My mom is going to need a lot of help to be on this trip. Her legs don’t bend. Surgery would fix the problem, but she has a tremendous phobia about surgery. She’d rather suffer. Many of her ills could be fixed with surgery but that won’t happen.
Fortunately, she is surrounded by caring people who do look out for her. Best of all, she loves it. Finally, she is being waited on hand and foot, a position she feels is her natural right.
Please carry my purse. Go get my cane where I left it upstairs. I’d get myself a glass of water, but it is so difficult for me to get out of this chair. Ah, the beauty of it all. Being invalided makes the job of manipulation so much easier.
If she could just get the one recalcitrant child to hop to her tune, her happiness would be complete. And so it is. I can almost hear the cackle of glee.
My interpretation of her agenda might be colored, somewhat, by my longstanding antipathy towards her.
Remember in the last battle in ‘The Avengers’ where they need Bruce Banner to be the Hulk and Captain America tells Bruce that now would be a good time to get angry and Bruce says “That’s my secret. I’m always angry”.
Okay. It’s not much of a secret. Whenever I am around her, I seethe with anger, like a red hot coal burning at my center. The closer the proximity, the worse it gets. I find it very difficult to eat at a table with her, because I can’t make eye contact with her for fear that flames of loathing will shoot from eyes and incinerate her.
I don’t know how to make it better. She did call me on it and I said would you be willing to change your personality in order for us to move beyond this? She said, as I knew she would, no.
Here is a recent example of how my mother’s broken mind works.
We were talking about our bags for the trip. My mom has picked up the extension during a conversation I am having with my dad, since she has to hear all the conversations. See the above bit about being left out.
Everyone is taking two bags since we will be gone for over 17 days. My father tells my mother that for the first leg when we are in Boston for three days, she should put everything she needs for those three days in one bag so we can leave the other bag sealed up in the car. I had the same thought and was already planning my packing along those lines. (I am sure everyone planes their packing weeks in advance)
There is a long pause on the phone as my mother considers making someone else's life easier by planning ahead and curtailing her own needs. My father says, “What?” into the pause. My mother, “It sounds so limiting”
My father deserves a last good trip to Ireland. It is probably one of his favorite places on the planet. But I don’t think he will get much enjoyment out of it. He was serious, and right, when he said he shouldn’t travel any more. He can’t sit for long periods because he has an open wound on his rear that will never heal. He can’t stand for long periods of time because Diabetes has ravaged his extremities. He has periods when he can’t catch his breath. He has dizzy spells.
And he’s married to the Harridan.
He shouldn’t go. But chances are high, he will never go again. I keep asking him what he wants to do when he is there. “Rest”
So, I’m putting damper on the cauldron as best as I can for the next couple of weeks. It always makes my father unhappy when he sees my mother and I go at it with both barrels. I will keep the venom to a minimum as I gaze at the creature that stares out from behind that withered exterior. Hopefully, she won’t say anything too egregious or wake up some morning spoiling for a fight. Sadly, I will always rise to that challenge.
Don’t cry for me, Argentina. I’ll make it. Part of this process was lancing the boil in the hope that there will be a small place to put the pus of my upcoming engagement with she who bred me.
It is my irony nightmare.
Oh, boo hoo, poor Greg and his first world problems. The benighted little lamb has to go to Ireland and take care of his mummy. I know. ‘Ungrateful Son’ will be in large letters on my tombstone.
When this trip idea was first broached by my father, I was ecstatic. Who doesn’t want a trip overseas? Then he said my mother would be going and the sails went windless.
What? Mom’s going? Wasn’t there a moratorium on travel for mom since it is very difficult for her and everyone around her when she travels? Hasn’t mom said on repeated occasions she doesn’t want to go to Ireland since she has already been to Ireland and would rather go someplace new and different? These statements are true and yet there I was adding her name to the booking requests.
Despite all the aforementioned statements, my mother is also a very jealous woman. She doesn’t want to be left out of anything no matter how little she might want to be doing that particular thing. Think Glen Close screaming “I’m not going to be ignored” in Fatal Attraction, only not that pleasant.
So, my mom is on the trip. My mom is going to need a lot of help to be on this trip. Her legs don’t bend. Surgery would fix the problem, but she has a tremendous phobia about surgery. She’d rather suffer. Many of her ills could be fixed with surgery but that won’t happen.
Fortunately, she is surrounded by caring people who do look out for her. Best of all, she loves it. Finally, she is being waited on hand and foot, a position she feels is her natural right.
Please carry my purse. Go get my cane where I left it upstairs. I’d get myself a glass of water, but it is so difficult for me to get out of this chair. Ah, the beauty of it all. Being invalided makes the job of manipulation so much easier.
If she could just get the one recalcitrant child to hop to her tune, her happiness would be complete. And so it is. I can almost hear the cackle of glee.
My interpretation of her agenda might be colored, somewhat, by my longstanding antipathy towards her.
Remember in the last battle in ‘The Avengers’ where they need Bruce Banner to be the Hulk and Captain America tells Bruce that now would be a good time to get angry and Bruce says “That’s my secret. I’m always angry”.
Okay. It’s not much of a secret. Whenever I am around her, I seethe with anger, like a red hot coal burning at my center. The closer the proximity, the worse it gets. I find it very difficult to eat at a table with her, because I can’t make eye contact with her for fear that flames of loathing will shoot from eyes and incinerate her.
I don’t know how to make it better. She did call me on it and I said would you be willing to change your personality in order for us to move beyond this? She said, as I knew she would, no.
Here is a recent example of how my mother’s broken mind works.
We were talking about our bags for the trip. My mom has picked up the extension during a conversation I am having with my dad, since she has to hear all the conversations. See the above bit about being left out.
Everyone is taking two bags since we will be gone for over 17 days. My father tells my mother that for the first leg when we are in Boston for three days, she should put everything she needs for those three days in one bag so we can leave the other bag sealed up in the car. I had the same thought and was already planning my packing along those lines. (I am sure everyone planes their packing weeks in advance)
There is a long pause on the phone as my mother considers making someone else's life easier by planning ahead and curtailing her own needs. My father says, “What?” into the pause. My mother, “It sounds so limiting”
My father deserves a last good trip to Ireland. It is probably one of his favorite places on the planet. But I don’t think he will get much enjoyment out of it. He was serious, and right, when he said he shouldn’t travel any more. He can’t sit for long periods because he has an open wound on his rear that will never heal. He can’t stand for long periods of time because Diabetes has ravaged his extremities. He has periods when he can’t catch his breath. He has dizzy spells.
And he’s married to the Harridan.
He shouldn’t go. But chances are high, he will never go again. I keep asking him what he wants to do when he is there. “Rest”
So, I’m putting damper on the cauldron as best as I can for the next couple of weeks. It always makes my father unhappy when he sees my mother and I go at it with both barrels. I will keep the venom to a minimum as I gaze at the creature that stares out from behind that withered exterior. Hopefully, she won’t say anything too egregious or wake up some morning spoiling for a fight. Sadly, I will always rise to that challenge.
Don’t cry for me, Argentina. I’ll make it. Part of this process was lancing the boil in the hope that there will be a small place to put the pus of my upcoming engagement with she who bred me.
So much for the flickr badge idea. Dammit