This has not been a good week.
Mar. 12th, 2004 12:53 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ysobelleWe’re all worried about Cliff, and praying for him. You. And Pam, you, too.
Maryanne’s baby was, after nine months of hope, stillborn.
And then, Tuesday, my Aunt Grace went into the hospital. Again.
I spoke to her Monday night. Sunday, Mom and I went to King of Prussia and bought her a new toaster oven and a set of pots. She never cooks. Mind you, but every once in a while, she wants to warm something up. How’s she’s managed two years in that apartment without decent pots and pans, I don’t know. But that’s my Aunt. Even now, it looks like she’s just moved in. Boxes everywhere. Papers in piles. No pictures on the walls. Rugs still rolled up.
We’ve tried. We got her a computer, and I showed her how to use it, but she doesn’t want to. She could send email—she’s an excellent writer and a very smart woman—but she doesn’t try. She just says it’s too hard for her. I think she may finally have learned how to work the remote control on her television, but I’m not sure. The CD player in her alarm clock, no. The full-function phone I picked out for her, not a chance.
But I love Aunt Grace, make no mistake. I don’t call her often enough, and I don’t see her near enough, but we love each other. She called me Monday to thank me for going out to get her new things, and we talked for an hour and a half. She has an enormous legal mess back in New York, trying to settle her affairs with a husband we had to commit—long story—and a state-appointed guardian who seems to be not only greedy and presumptive, but crooked. She’s being bled to death by lawyers and taxes, and sometimes it seems like this’ll never get settled. I know she feels residual guilt over my uncle, despite being told by every doctor who ever saw him that she did what she absolutely had to. She’s also had seizures most of her life, and had to take some fairly powerful medicines for them. Lately, they haven’t been working as well as they could, so her doctors have been switching her to something new. The transition’s been rough on her, and has actually brought on seizures, and dizziness, and general unhappiness.
She described it all in minute detail, and I made soothing noises. We both know there’s nothing I can do about most of it, but that I’m here to listen. I’m also here—and she knows this, too—to kick her in the behind a little about getting out, doing things, not wallowing. Of course, I spend most of every phone call kicking myself for not going to see her—she lives three blocks from where I work. The, "It’s okay, I know you’re busy!" does NOT help.
But this phone call, she told me about a dream she had the other night.
She was talking to her mother—my grandmother, obviously, whom everyone in th family always called Mother—and she said, "Oh, I’m just tired of it all. Sometimes I just want it all to be over."
"No," Mother said, "You don’t get to decide that. Only G-d can decide."
"I’m just tired," my aunt said.
"Don’t worry," my grandmother apparently replied, "It may not be as long as you think."
"Don’t SAY that!" I said, hearing my own voice come out in a sort of injured-animal wail, as I tried not-very-successfully to conceal the fact that I was crying. "Don’t you DARE."
"I’m sorry," Aunt Grace said, laughing-but-not-really, "I just really am so sick of it all!"
"If you do ANYTHING," I told her, " I will KILL YOU."
She laughed, "But, now, I won’t care! I won’t be here!"
"I will BRING YOU BACK," I swore. "And THEN I WILL KILL YOU."
I got her to laugh again later, and I told her that as soon as she was feeling better, we were going to go to the very nice semi-assisted, mostly-independent senior apartment she looked at last year and seemed to like, though she changed her mind later. She’s going to be 75 in June, but she doesn’t want to go to such a place, as she doesn’t feel she’s old enough, bless her. The rest of us agree, but in such a place, she’ll have people to talk to, activities, maybe even computer classes. She’s always saying the people in her current building wouldn’t know or care in the faintest if she dropped dead tomorrow. She made agreeable noises. She mentioned again how much this switching medicines is playing havoc with her. The last thing she said was, "Pray for me I don’t have more seizures!"
The next day, my mom calls, with that tone in her voice—Aunt Grace is in the hospital.
Fuck it. Now I’m exhausted. I just took a break, walked the dog—she slipped her leash, scared the hell out of one of my neighbours—afraid of a COLLIE PUPPY?—and I had to chase her across the complex, terrified she’d get hit by a fucking car.
I’ve fucking well had enough.
Maryanne’s baby was, after nine months of hope, stillborn.
And then, Tuesday, my Aunt Grace went into the hospital. Again.
I spoke to her Monday night. Sunday, Mom and I went to King of Prussia and bought her a new toaster oven and a set of pots. She never cooks. Mind you, but every once in a while, she wants to warm something up. How’s she’s managed two years in that apartment without decent pots and pans, I don’t know. But that’s my Aunt. Even now, it looks like she’s just moved in. Boxes everywhere. Papers in piles. No pictures on the walls. Rugs still rolled up.
We’ve tried. We got her a computer, and I showed her how to use it, but she doesn’t want to. She could send email—she’s an excellent writer and a very smart woman—but she doesn’t try. She just says it’s too hard for her. I think she may finally have learned how to work the remote control on her television, but I’m not sure. The CD player in her alarm clock, no. The full-function phone I picked out for her, not a chance.
But I love Aunt Grace, make no mistake. I don’t call her often enough, and I don’t see her near enough, but we love each other. She called me Monday to thank me for going out to get her new things, and we talked for an hour and a half. She has an enormous legal mess back in New York, trying to settle her affairs with a husband we had to commit—long story—and a state-appointed guardian who seems to be not only greedy and presumptive, but crooked. She’s being bled to death by lawyers and taxes, and sometimes it seems like this’ll never get settled. I know she feels residual guilt over my uncle, despite being told by every doctor who ever saw him that she did what she absolutely had to. She’s also had seizures most of her life, and had to take some fairly powerful medicines for them. Lately, they haven’t been working as well as they could, so her doctors have been switching her to something new. The transition’s been rough on her, and has actually brought on seizures, and dizziness, and general unhappiness.
She described it all in minute detail, and I made soothing noises. We both know there’s nothing I can do about most of it, but that I’m here to listen. I’m also here—and she knows this, too—to kick her in the behind a little about getting out, doing things, not wallowing. Of course, I spend most of every phone call kicking myself for not going to see her—she lives three blocks from where I work. The, "It’s okay, I know you’re busy!" does NOT help.
But this phone call, she told me about a dream she had the other night.
She was talking to her mother—my grandmother, obviously, whom everyone in th family always called Mother—and she said, "Oh, I’m just tired of it all. Sometimes I just want it all to be over."
"No," Mother said, "You don’t get to decide that. Only G-d can decide."
"I’m just tired," my aunt said.
"Don’t worry," my grandmother apparently replied, "It may not be as long as you think."
"Don’t SAY that!" I said, hearing my own voice come out in a sort of injured-animal wail, as I tried not-very-successfully to conceal the fact that I was crying. "Don’t you DARE."
"I’m sorry," Aunt Grace said, laughing-but-not-really, "I just really am so sick of it all!"
"If you do ANYTHING," I told her, " I will KILL YOU."
She laughed, "But, now, I won’t care! I won’t be here!"
"I will BRING YOU BACK," I swore. "And THEN I WILL KILL YOU."
I got her to laugh again later, and I told her that as soon as she was feeling better, we were going to go to the very nice semi-assisted, mostly-independent senior apartment she looked at last year and seemed to like, though she changed her mind later. She’s going to be 75 in June, but she doesn’t want to go to such a place, as she doesn’t feel she’s old enough, bless her. The rest of us agree, but in such a place, she’ll have people to talk to, activities, maybe even computer classes. She’s always saying the people in her current building wouldn’t know or care in the faintest if she dropped dead tomorrow. She made agreeable noises. She mentioned again how much this switching medicines is playing havoc with her. The last thing she said was, "Pray for me I don’t have more seizures!"
The next day, my mom calls, with that tone in her voice—Aunt Grace is in the hospital.
Fuck it. Now I’m exhausted. I just took a break, walked the dog—she slipped her leash, scared the hell out of one of my neighbours—afraid of a COLLIE PUPPY?—and I had to chase her across the complex, terrified she’d get hit by a fucking car.
I’ve fucking well had enough.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2004-03-11 10:27 pm (UTC)My brother committed suicide, and I completely empathize with what you said (and meant) when you were speaking with your Aunt.
I have strong shoulders if you ever need to lean... ears to listen... and arms to hug if you need one or many.
Much positive energy and blessings sent to you and yours.
~Psyche
no subject
Date: 2004-03-12 04:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-03-12 05:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-03-12 05:58 am (UTC)Nothing can be said - but we're sending lots of prayers your family's way.
Breathe deeply...
Date: 2004-03-12 08:24 am (UTC)Trust me I know where you are...take some time to catch your breath before you try to do anymore. It'll pass.
I love ya sweetie..
Bad week
Date: 2004-03-12 09:36 am (UTC)That Flying, Fire-breathing, Lizard-like thing...
no subject
Date: 2004-03-15 09:59 pm (UTC)