Dad and his adorning idiotic daughter, me.
As many of you kind readers might recall, my dad fell ill in September and spent the past 5 months in ether the ICU, hospital, or nursing home. At the same time, I learned my dad hid the extent of my mom’s mental deterioration due to Alzheimer’s. I put life on hold while I attended to their health and affairs.
The good news is Dad is much improved. The bad news is Mom and Dad moved back home and Dad wants to take care of Mom on his own. Brilliant idea. But he is a stubborn coot and there was no talking him out of it.
We are all friends here, right? If I pour us a nice glass of wine for you, can I whine, whine, whine on your shoulder about something?
It is a strange when, at the ripe old age of fifty shades gray and mildew, you realize your parents don’t give a rip about you. Not strange, I guess. It is more like knife-through-the-heart hurtful.
What caused this revelation, epiphany, come-to-Jesus moment that helped me understand they don’t give a damn about me?
Here is a Reader’s Digest version of what happened today.
Ring. Ring.
Me: Hi Dad. How ya doin’?
Dad: I’m okay. I’m throwing a 67th anniversary party for me and your mother on the 5th. Can you come?
Me: No, Dad. I’m so sorry. I am out of town on the 5th. But I love you to the moon and beyond!
Dad: Whatever. Talk to you later.
Two hours later . . .
Ring. Ring.
Me: Hey Dad . . . everything okay?
Dad: No. Something terrible has happened. Your sister Kathy can’t get off work on the 5th so I changed the date of the anniversary party to the 9th. Can you come?
What the heck? I can’t make the party on the 5th . . . no big deal. Kathy can’t make the party on the 5th . . . let’s change the date!
That is when I had a talk with myself and decided I am either a (Pick one):
a) Slow learner
b) Cock-eyed optimist
c) Dingbat
d) All of the above
Your votes will be tabulated and I will report the results in a future blog post. However, none of you will see the post because you will unfollow me after reading this episode of indulgent wallowing in self-pity.
My next “I am an idiot” moment came later today.
While dad was in the various institutions recovering from every illness known to man, I cleaned their house from top to bottom to left to right. Oh boy, did it need it. I am ready to run a marathon after all the trips I made up and down the stairs with garbage and stuff for Goodwill. The washing machine may never recover and a dermatologist is treating my dishpan hands.
Call three from Dad today:
Ring Ring.
Me: Okay, Dad. Now something must really be wrong.
Dad: Yes. I don’t know if I should thank you or be mad at you.
Me: Why, daddy-o mine?
Dad: Because of all your cleaning, I can’t find my golf shirt.
Me: You have 50 freaking golf shirts!
Dad: I know, but I can’t find the golf shirt with the big stain on the front, the hole on the sleeve, and a frayed collar that curls up around my ears in a beguiling manner. You know, the one that smells bad?
I spent 2,457 hours cleaning their house, put my life on hold, and spent thousands on travel expenses to be at his and Mom’s side, and he doesn’t know if he should be mad at me or thank me?
I give up.
Thanks for listening. Would you like some more whine wine?
Robin Coyle 