Is Cruelty the Point?

Or is cruelty just a lovely by-product?
I think it was 16 or 17 years ago. Hang on while I check.
Okay. 

May 2008.

Steve got my parents a puppy. 
A fucking Jack Russell terrier for two old people.

I still have no idea why my brother did such a stupid thing.

In some ways, the dog was cared about. They took her to the vet. The vet immediately prescribed 'special' dog food because the poor dog had sensitive skin. So the parents bought ridiculously priced scientifically balanced food.

Yeah, no. The stuff the vet was peddling was a money maker, but completely unnecessary.
There are a lot of ways to feed a dog, including making your own dog food. If a person doesn't want to do that, there's a brand available in the grocery store refrigerator section that's supposed to be pretty good for them.

I did a little research on it, trying to help the folks save some money. But they didn't care about that, they preferred to tell people, "We buy special food for our dog!"

She was a smart dog. It took me less than two minutes to train her not to jump on me. And for the next 10 years or so she remembered not to jump on me. All I had to do was make the gesture at her and she'd sink to the floor, quivering and wriggling all over. Then I'd pat her head and tell her what a good girl she was, which caused her joy.

Other than shitting outside (mostly, well, sometimes) they didn't bother to teach her anything. She had poor manners, was bored. Not taken for walks. Not stimulated with play.

Overfed, overindulged.  
She had a sweet temperament, and would have been able to learn anything, but instead they taught her nothing.

No, wait. I take that back.

Excerpt from visiting Butthump, Oregon in 2017:

(it's worth reading, or maybe I just think it is but it made me laugh tonight)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When they sit down to eat, they take the small white plastic cup they use to scoop dog kibble and fill it about half full. It sits on the table between them. Whenever the dog grunts at them or stands up on her hind legs and scratches the shit out of them, they pour out six or eight little pieces, thump them off the table onto the floor and the dog chases them all over, inhaling consuming them in seconds.

Then she comes back and grunts at them again.

Repeat.

While I was observing this behavior with a shocked face, my mother turned to me and said, with complete seriousness, "I wish she wouldn't beg at the table!"

I said, "Well, you've trained her to ask for food at the table."

"No, I didn't. She just learned to do it on her own."

Picture me slamming my head on the table repeatedly here...

The dog sits on my dad's lap, 'washing' his hands.
While he just lets her do it.

I said, "Dad! For goodness sake, she licks her asshole!"

He laughed at that.
And continued to let Miss Ass-licker clean his hands with her tongue.
Guess.
When he went to the kitchen for a snack he very carefully...

 Washed his hands

Did not wash his hands

Probably should have washed his hands
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Okay, so Dad died in 2023. Another three months and it will be two years.

When Mom came home from my brother's house (she left town to go have Thanksgiving dinner with my brother's family while my dad was dying in the hospital, and really, I don't feel too bad about that) without Dad, the dog looked and looked for him.

I saw the dog a month later when we were in town for Dad's funeral.

She was barely getting around, chubby and misshapen. Her legs were bent awkwardly, if she were a human, she'd have needed a walker to get around. Eyes were cloudy, and between the fact that Mom was too old to get to the door to let the dog out and the dog's lifelong habit of shitting by the front door as needed, well, I'm guessing you can figure out how that was going.

It wasn't long before Mom called me one evening to say that Daisy could not use her back legs at all. That she was lying on the floor, crying. This was on a Saturday. During the phone call, I could hear that poor dog. 

"Mom, you need to take her to the vet."

"Oh, well, they charge extra on Saturday."

"So? You're just going to let her suffer until Monday?"

"Oh," she said, vaguely, "I'm sure she'll be fine."

The dog was lying in her own shit, howling with pain, and my mom didn't want to get help for her.

She didn't either. Not until that Monday, even though I said I would pay the vet bill.
"If money is the issue, Mom, then we'll pay for it. Please take that poor dog to the vet."

And when she said she'd 'probably' do it on Monday, I was pissed. I told her she was needlessly cruel and that her poor dumb animal was in horrible pain and didn't understand what was happening to her.

She responded by telling me that she did not appreciate me telling her that.

The next day, when we talked on the phone she complained that the dog's crying had kept her awake all night and she was tired. I asked her if she thought maybe the dog was tired too, since she'd been awake and in pain all night long.

"It's cruel, Mom. I never knew you were so mean."

She asked me how the weather was.

She finally did take the dog in. To my surprise, the laser treatments and Gabapentin helped and she was able to walk again. The first series of treatments was over a thousand dollars.

After that, Mom was spending three to five hundred dollars per month to keep the dog going.

When I suggested that Daisy's quality of life was deteriorating and expressed sympathy/pity for the dog, my mom said, "Well the vet says if it were HER dog she would still be treating her, that it's not time to let her go just yet."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Amy (Matt's wife) was of the opinion that the vet was making enough money from my mom that euthanasia wasn't on the table. I'm sure she's right.
So poor old Daisy just got worse and worse.

The past couple months, all she's done is lie under the piano, occasionally eat, and go shit by the front door. Mom didn't even bother letting her out anymore.

I got a text from my brother this afternoon telling me that Mom's caregiver had taken the dog to be put to sleep this morning. I'll tell Mom that I'm sorry, but I'm not. It should have been done more than a year ago. She was blind, senile and had zero quality of life. Mom was holding on to her because she was Dad's dog. So no common sense from Mom and no compassion, either.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised. The more my childhood memories begin to surface, the more I realize that in her own way, she was as cruel and mean as my dad.

At least the vet isn't going to get any more money to keep the pain going.

I'm still here. James isn't.

Remember James? He's the little guy who had a para educator threaten him with the police and jail about two weeks before he ended up in my program.

He's an adorable little guy, and I think I've mentioned here that he has more charisma than any five year old I've ever met. He's smart and funny and kind and quite often hilarious.

After a brief adjustment period, he has done really well in the group. Every kid likes him. He's confident, bold without being mean, and I've enjoyed having him around.

A few weeks ago Mom called our offices and told them to remove 'Bill' (her domestic partner) from the authorized pick up list.

A word about Bill.
I didn't like him, although I didn't have a concrete reason for that.
Mostly I was bothered because he smiled a LOT. Was overly hearty. But his smile never reached his eyes.

Not my problem, just a guy who could pick up one of my kids, then couldn't.

When Mom had him removed from authorized list, she didn't give an explanation or any commentary.

When I was in our offices, I asked our registrar if there was anything I needed to know or be concerned about.

I have dealt with some family issues over the years. It's not fun. And people can be really awful.

The afternoon of the day James' mom called and had 'Bill' taken off the pickup list, James told me, "We moved into a new apartment because Bill is mean to my mom."

I didn't say anything much, with stuff like that I stay as non-committal as I can. I'm available for listening, but one of the things they teach you in RRCAN training (Recognizing and Reporting Child Abuse/Neglect) is to listen. Don't try to lead the conversation, don't have big reactions to anything they tell you and try to keep a straight face. Don't look shocked or inquisitive.

So things went on. Life as usual. Mom picked up little brother every day on her way to get James. Little brother was very interested in our toy selection and felt important because all the other kids knew him by name and greeted him like an old friend every afternoon.

Two weeks ago, Mom showed up with Bill to pick up James. James was surprised and excited to see him, left the building riding on his shoulders and telling him to, "Go faster!!"

I also was surprised to see Bill, but didn't show it.

Then last Wednesday, everything was different.

Mom showed up without little brother. James wasn't happy to see her, we had just gotten the Five o' Clock Box out (end of the day thing... I'll explain some other time) and he didn't want to leave.

She asked me to step into the hallway with her and immediately started to cry.

"We are leaving the state tonight, I'm so sorry, you won't be seeing James anymore. He's been so happy here, he has never liked day care before and he just loves you."

She had not gone to work that day, instead had been at home packing. The plan was for her to get James, stop and pick up little brother and then get on the road immediately. She wasn't going to tell Bill that she was leaving.

She told me where they were going, although I'd never say anything to anyone about their destination.

I am glad she was strong enough to take her kids and get away. No child should think it's okay for a partner to treat someone badly.

But I'm sad. James is a special kid. I know I won't get to learn the rest of his life story and that I won't see him anymore, and that makes me sad.

Knuckles

I called my littlest brother last week.
Weird as it sounds, we haven't said a lot about my leaving home.
We have never discussed why I left, what was going on.
We didn't talk about the screaming, the hitting, the tantrums.
The night time door-slamming, stomping, making Mom cry sessions.

For all these years I have thought things weren't so bad once I left.

The girl child who was outspoken and decided to stand up and defend herself wasn't there anymore, so the angry and mean asshole dad would somehow have improved.

I thought no one else in the family had the same experiences.

That Dad's favorite trick of making a fist with the middle knuckle sticking out and taking jabbing punches at my upper arms as punctuation for his rants didn't happen to anyone else. That the scattering of circular bruises in a place that didn't show was just mine.

Nope.

Anyway. Little brother is 55 years old now.
Told him some of what I was feeling since dad died and how much I regret not seeing him grow up.
How I felt like I lost him. He said, "No, you haven't. I'm still here."

Then I asked him what he remembered about my leaving. All these years I thought he was too young to remember the things that happened and that he didn't even know Dad was so messed up.

Guys, I learned a lot. Not only did Dad NOT improve, he got worse. More abuse. Highlights include middle brother being knocked through the sliding glass door at my grandma's house (he needed stitches and dad concocted a story that middle bro stuck to) and a "pretty bad" beating for baby brother with a deflated bicycle tire inner tube. There were almost daily tantrums and violence. And one by one we left home. I can only imagine how things escalated against Mom, it must have been unbearable. I am sure he hit her, although I never saw it while I lived in their home, all the kids were too easy to smack around.

I don't excuse her for her part in his abuse, she enabled it and was silent so many times when she could have made a difference, but I feel sorry for her, too. She's... not a really smart person in most ways. She was never able to stand up for us or for herself. She was raised that way and never grew a backbone. Her lack of inner strength is an explanation, though. Not an excuse.

I find myself wishing to go back in time knowing what I know now. Knowing that I could have made phone calls, talked to people (the whole don't tell on your family thing was strong) or tried to help get my brothers out of the situation, too.

Anyway, I continue to work through this shit. Next up, I need to call my other brother and have a heart to heart with him. Although I wasn't as close to him as the baby bro (born too close together I think, sibling rivalry) I still loved him and love him now. He's a good man who has done good things in the world. And he's kindhearted and loving to his family.

It's weird to me. I assumed that when Dad finally kicked off, I might feel guilt at not going to see him or not having anything other than a superficial relationship with him over the last 15 years or so. I saw him twice in the five years leading up to his death and talked to him on the phone maybe four times during those five years. Just nothing to say. He was not a healthy person, and I didn't need the illness I always got from being around him. Sorry it took me so long to figure that out.

But I'm not feeling guilt over our estrangement. Instead I'm feeling cheated for all the other years. For the knuckles instead of loving support I deserved.

So what happened?

In response to one of my commenters and two people who emailed, I'm posting most of the email that went to the son of the counselor I saw. It contains a bit of my story.

In retrospect (isn't it amazing how clearly we can view what we should have said/done when it's in the past?) there were so many things that happened and so many times I said nothing.

It's a conditioned response.
Safer to say nothing and lie low. Tiptoe around and try not to be noticed.
Don't piss him off.
But the real problem wasn't that I was pissing him off, the problem was that I was existing in a different form than the easily controlled little girl. Puberty changed the whole dynamic.

He didn't appreciate that.

My own torment would have ended sooner if I had not been afraid to speak up about the things happening at home.

But I had two little brothers. And while I wasn't putting them first in my thinking because they didn't seem to be targeted the same way I was, I didn't completely leave them out of my thoughts, either. 

Like this: He'd get pissed at me and rant and scream and shove. Slam doors. Tantrums, really. Like a six year old. Him saying that he 'didn't like me' anymore was the equivalent of the first grade comment that's guaranteed to hurt feelings and show them just who's boss... "You're not my friend anymore!"

And if the tantrum didn't run him all the way down, there was plenty of vitriol and anger left for my brothers. And for Mom when she came home exhausted from her 2nd shift job. She was ready to go to bed and go to sleep, he wanted to argue and slam doors and stomp around.
He was angry all the time and looking for an excuse to explode.

So here's some of the email I sent to the adult son of my now-deceased counselor.

J. found your contact information for me.

Don't know how she did it, but I'm happy that she has done so. I wouldn't have been able to.

It feels right to tell you what a difference your father made in my life. I truly believe he saved me when I was a teenager.

I grew up with a father (public school teacher) who had some kind of personality disorder. I'm not qualified to diagnose, but I would guess some kind of BPD or Narcissism.

He was paranoid and angry as long as I knew him, but not overtly mean to me until I had the nerve to go through puberty and become a woman instead of staying a little girl.

Diagnosis doesn't matter, it's especially pointless now as he died this past Thanksgiving.

There was a lot of verbal and emotional abuse over the years between my 12th and 16th birthdays.

It ramped up after my dad lost his father and twin brother within three years of each other.

Mom was no help, she was an enabler. There was absolutely no mama bear in her. I can't recall a single instance of her standing up for me. Not one. Raised to be quiet, don't draw attention to herself, make no waves. She was the daughter of a small town business owner and spent her entire life trying to make sure she never upset or inconvenienced anyone.

She went from being under her father's thumb to being under my father's boot. They were married at 19 and 20.

There was some physical abuse in our home as well. I had an adult friend who was a mandatory reporter, and he passed along the information to CPS after a particularly awful incident.

I don't know how it works today (funnily enough *I* am a mandatory reporter now) but back then, someone from the CPS offices came to school and pulled me out of class to talk.

She asked me what had happened, and I, being both brutally honest and blunt as well as pissed off and tired of dealing with it, told her exactly what had occurred.

I went back to class, not knowing what I'd started.

That evening was not the calmest evening I've ever had.

Dad asked me and my brother if we'd talked to anyone at school today. I said I had.

"And what did you tell her?"

"The truth."

Then he turned to my little brother and asked him the same question.
My brother said, "I didn't tell them nothin'."

"You're a good son," Dad told him.
And gave him a twenty dollar bill.

I was treated to a screaming, ranting, foaming at the mouth lecture about how family protects family and told how he would have taken a bullet before ever saying a thing against HIS father.

This backstory is relevant because CPS told my dad that we needed to get family counseling if he wanted them to drop the case.

Which is where your dad comes in.

We all trooped down to his office one evening, and had our first session.

After we were all situated, B asked us why we were there. My dad said, "There's something wrong with my family. They're persecuting me. I've done nothing wrong, yet they're treating me like Hagar the Horrible. I hope you can help them."

I don't have total recall, but I remember every one of those words. I remember every little nuance, the musty smell of the building, the color of the carpet and the ugly wood paneling on the walls.

We had three sessions. They were not really productive as far as I could tell, although Dad did stop smacking me, so I guess that was a win.

He was still mean, though.
As the three counseling sessions faded into the distance, he got more and more angry and awful.

If it weren't for my best friend, I wouldn't have had a safe space.
Home was not safe. School wasn't, either.
Wherever Hollie was, I was safe.

Then, her whole family moved away over summer.

I was so emotionally fragile and my person was just... gone overnight.

I was 16.
No more safe.

I didn't have other friends.
I didn't trust anyone with my story.
My heart.

Things weren't okay at home.
I was devastated by the loss of my only friend.
High school is hard. Very hard in a little town, the cliques and all the rest of the stuff that goes on.

And because I didn't trust people, I didn't have friends to rely on.

Oh sure, I had acquaintances, but not having my friend anymore had just kicked the legs out from under me.

One morning in late October, I just.. couldn't anymore. 
Couldn't think.
Couldn't see a way out of everything.
I couldn't get ready for school.
Couldn't, well, anything.
Couldn't.

I was unable to function. In retrospect, I realize it was a breakdown. I couldn't stop crying.

My mother came in to make sure I was getting ready for school, observed me lying in a puddle of tears on the floor in my bedroom and rather sarcastically said, "Well! I guess you should just go see a counselor since you're so upset!"

She was shocked when I agreed.

She made a phone call that morning.
Guess where she took me.
Go on, guess.

You're right. I went to see your dad.

Only this time, it was just me going there.

So here's where that backstory comes in. B had met my dad. More than once. And although Dad tried to hide his dark side from the world, your dad had seen a bit of it. And he knew what the CPS report had said, too.

So I saw B every week for about six weeks.

And one day while we were talking, he said, "Listen. There is nothing wrong with you. You're fine. You're smart, you're capable, and you're not a bad person. Your entire problem is your dad and what you need is to get away from him. Do you have a place you could go?"

That was early December. We brainstormed a few ideas (your dad was not on board with the idea of me moving in with my boyfriend) and I ended up contacting my maternal grandparents to ask if I could come to them.

They were agreeable.

All that remained was to tell my family.

He helped me with that, too.
We talked about what I should say.
How I should phrase it.
He gave me the courage to go to my dad and say the words.

It was an ultimatum.

"Look Dad. I won't live with you anymore. Here are the choices. I can move out and move in with my boyfriend. I can run away, be declared missing, go to court and ask to go into foster care. Or I can go to the grandparents in Colorado. You can pick. But I won't stay here anymore."

And by mid-January 1978, I was on a plane to Colorado.

Since this is my story, I will hit the fast forward here.

I met my future husband on my 18th birthday. Before I was 20, we were married. He was damaged, too. Alcoholic mom, enabling dad.

A much, much harder lifestory than mine. Yet a strong, decent person. Full of integrity and heart. He's been my best friend for 43 years now.
We had two kids, both are adults with happy lives and wonderful partners.
He's an amazing father and husband.

I believe with all my heart that those good things in my life would not be mine now if your dad hadn't helped me.

I regret that I never told him that he'd made such a difference.
My life journey would have gone in a different direction, I think.

I've found support in a lot of places. I think I'm mostly okay, which is more than a lot of people can hope for.

I've been floundering a bit because Dad's death brought up all the crazy stuff that happened to me growing up. I've been processing it. Dredging up all that old stuff has been instructive and cathartic and confusing and aggravating and all the emotions.

~~~~~~~~~
It was surprisingly hard to get through all that stuff.
Even though it really was a lifetime ago.
There are parts of it that still make me cry, and I don't do that often.


His response was very kind and affirming. He told me that his dad would have loved to know that he'd made a difference in my life and thanked me for sharing my story.

He shared some stuff from his life and his appreciation for growing up with the parents he had.

He also enclosed a newspaper clipping with a photo of his dad and him as a six year old. Little guy was sitting in one of the chairs in the same office that was so familiar to me back then.
Took me back immediately.

So I find that writing things down is helpful for me. I wish I had been a writer when I was a teen, having it all laid out would probably have been a help to me. I have written some down in the past few years. I know I wasn't crazy and I wasn't wrong, but having it in black and white is affirming. I may even dump some more here on the blog.

Processing

I've spent a fair amount of time since November 23rd considering all that happened as I was growing up, the effect having mentally ill parents had, and the really frustrating (to me, anyway) fact that a great deal of that shit was never brought into the light.

I go back and forth between how sad that he died alone to well of course he died alone, what did he expect?

I'm mature enough to know that what other people think of me really isn't my problem, but immature enough to be pissed off about the bad opinions of folks who have no clue about any of it.

Another incredibly frustrating thing are the people who say things like, "It's time to get over it." Or, my personal favorite, "Forgive and forget."

Putting aside the fact that those are platitudes that favor/excuse the abuser, stop and think about why you'd think it's okay to say that to someone who is hurting.

And this one, too. "They did the best they could."
Another platitude.

When I spend time considering what that actually means, I am forced to say no. No, they did not do 'their best'.

Because if the years of ugliness and abusive language and the slapping someone around is not occurring in full view of the entire universe, it's covert. Meaning they KNOW their behavior and actions aren't okay and they're hiding who they really are.

When they saved their best for everyone else, and now they're gone and everyone else thinks they were a saint, there's something very wrong.

I just love when someone adds, "Don't dwell on it."
Who the hell are you? Why are you telling me how to handle things and what to think about the things that happened to me? What the hell do you know about it?

"Why are you still so angry?"

The only answer to that one is, "Why aren't you angry on my behalf? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Well, other people had it worse."
Ya think?
What you're saying is because someone had worse pain, mine is insignificant? Somehow doesn't hurt as much?

I've been reading/interacting on some forums dealing with being an adult survivor of narcissism or borderline personality disorder or other things in the same general categories.

It's been informative.
There's something to be said for knowing you're not alone, too. For me at least, it's been validating and comforting to know that many things I'd thought happened just to me happened to lots of other people. It doesn't make it hurt less, but it helps on a different level.

At this point, an actual diagnosis doesn't matter.
The villain in my story has gone on to whatever there is after this life.

One of the moderators in a forum reached out via PM a couple weeks ago and we shared a bit of what life was like when we were kids.

I told her about the counselor who had helped me get away from my father and shared how grateful I was.

"I looked him up a few years ago to try and write to him, but found his obituary instead."

She asked if he had children. I didn't know.
"Well if he did, you could write to them and tell them how he helped you."

I told her I wouldn't have the first clue how to find any progeny.
"I used to work for a PI," she said. "If it's okay with you, I will see what I can find out."

I told her that would be fine, and the next morning, contact information for my counselor's only child (haha, 'child'... the guy is 55 years old) was in my messages. She had already contacted him to make sure it was okay to pass along his information.

I wrote him an email.

His response was kind. He is a counselor as well.
He was appreciative of me sharing my story and said that if his dad were alive that he'd be thrilled to hear from me and to learn that he'd helped me survive and leave the situation.

Meanwhile, my mother has elevated her dead spouse to the level of sainthood and talks often about how the whole community just loved him and what a wonderful man he was.

I won't be saying anything bad to her. She is hurt and sad and lonely and it would serve no purpose. The person who caused the hurt is gone. Her role as the spineless doormat went on for 64 years and even though it was quite often a shitshow, it was their performance and how they navigated life.

That's also why I worked to write a eulogy that was humorous and true without any pedestals.

My poor mom never had a chance at a normal existence. I'm not going to become an adversary and cause her final years to be worse.

But I'll continue to process what was and what could have been.
It helps me feel better.

Well, that's over.

We went to the burial service on Friday and the memorial thing on Saturday.

Mom asked my brother Steve, who has a seasonal business and writes on the side to do the eulogy, but about two weeks ago when we were talking he said, "I just can't do it. I'm utterly swamped right now and I can't do justice to it anyway. I'm too emotional."

If you know anything about narcissistic parents with more than one child, there is usually a 'golden child' in the sibling group. Steve is that child.
His relationship with our father was a good one most of the time.
He wasn't hurt the way I was.

But we talked it over and I agreed that he shouldn't do it.
I offered to write it instead.

It took a week of solid thought (that's how I write something important... lots of thinking first) and about 14 hours of writing and editing to get it the way I wanted, but I delivered the eulogy and did my best to speak truth and say nothing hurtful.

There was no point in saying anything hurtful, and of course a memorial isn't the time or place for shit like that anyway. Things are how they are, I knew years ago that an apology would never come and that we'd never repair our relationship. I was mostly at peace with that. I'd done what I could and it wasn't my fault anyway. I was a child when it all happened.

My adults didn't know how to be adults. Mom was an enabler and a doormat.
Dad's emotional maturity was that of a seven year old, all foot-stompy and tantrum-y and blame-y. Nothing was ever his fault, and was usually mine.
I was told that many times. Ah well. See the water flowing under the bridge?

I've never been a big public speaker.
I get nervous.

It's funny, though. I can get up and sing in front of a crowd and not have my voice waver and be steady and confident. I really don't have stage fright when singing, I think because I was performing from the age of about three until I gave it up about 15 years ago.

Ask me to get up in front of that same group of people and talk and I'll be a wreck.

It went well, though. I was nervous for about 3 minutes, then got into my groove and finished. People laughed in the right places and seemed very interested in what I had to say. My extended family weren't the only people in tears, so I guess I did okay.

I started by saying my dad's name and what he was when he was born. A son,  grandson, nephew, twin brother, cousin.

As I spoke the words,  I lit a candle and placed it on an overturned plastic bin that was hidden under a black tablecloth.

As I went through the various stages of his life, husband, father, teacher, grandfather, musician, I lit a candle for each thing he was.

(Not real candles. Battery operated. Didn't want to burn down the facility.)

Toward the end of the eulogy I said, "I called him when he was in the hospital in October. Some of our conversation was odd, he was confused about exactly what was going on.

But he said that he felt like it wasn't going to be much longer before he would see his brother again. That he was tired of being sick and that he was ready to see what was next.

I asked him if he was afraid.
He said no and added something about stars and darkness and not being fearful.
I asked him to say it again.

He repeated the words and said that it was from a poem about an old astronomer, and that I should look it up because he could not remember exactly how it went.

 He chuckled and said, "I am an old astronomer."

I found the line Dad was trying to say:

Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;  I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night​.

That was the final thought he shared with me.
Dad left us on November 23rd."

I extinguished the candle that was placed above all the others on the bin, leaving the rest of them lit and arranged in a half circle below.

Then I said, "You're all here with our family today because your life was touched by Dad.
He probably taught you something, either as your school teacher or in some other way.
He was a born educator.
He may have been your friend. A colleague. A neighbor. Maybe he was your pastor for awhile.

These lights are symbols of some of the things he was.
Husband, father, grandfather. Uncle, friend, neighbor. Music man.
He's not physically here anymore, but our memories are the light he left for us.
And every time we remember a song he sang or a joke he told or a thing he taught us  that light still shines.
Take that with you when you leave today.
Remember him with love."

It was silent in the room, then everyone started applauding.
I didn't know they did that at memorial services.
They never have at any I went to.

Afterward, there were a lot of people who came and talked to me.
They told me it was the best eulogy they'd ever seen.

I was feeling both relieved and pretty good about it until Mom said, "I didn't know you knew how to write!"

After all the things I have sent to her over the years, quite a few from this blog. Hell yes I can write.
She was just being insulting on purpose.
Thanks, Mom.

She won't ever forgive me for what she sees as my betrayal of my father. She says she doesn't understand why I didn't come over and see him after he got so sick, either.

But she does.

I am inclined to just let that flow past, too. She's not in great shape physically and after the emotional beating she took over the last 64 years and the way it ramped up even more in the last six months or so to go along with the hard labor and diaper changes and vitriol, she's had enough.
I'm not going to make things worse for her.
What purpose would it serve?

On the brighter side, we saw a bobcat on our drive home. It was a relatively large specimen as far as bobcats go, and sleek and healthy looking. Beautiful markings. It paused on the hillside next to the highway long enough for us to get a really good look. Not long enough for me to get my phone out and snap a photo, though. Dammit.

It's good to be done with all the funeral and memorial stuff.

Great to be back home, too.
And no school until January 2nd.
I'll have time to do some planning in between meetings for this thing or that thing and mandatory in office hours on Fridays.

I hope to get a couple paintings done. I have a lunch date with Tami, too.
As usual, the house could use a little work. I am great at making a mess, not so good at keeping things cleaned up.

Dad

In the tiny town my parents live in, hospice care was recently taken over by the hospital.

So if you're in hospice care and a holiday is coming, they move you to the hospital over the holiday because they don't want to pay their hospice workers to come to your home during that time.

I could write a thousand words about the new hospital administrator, I've been hearing about all the fuckery he's gotten up to since arriving about a year ago. It's hard to get doctors in that town and quite a few of them have left because of working conditions under this guy.

So they let Mom know that Dad would still be getting care, but transported him to the hospital on Wednesday. He was in a more or less comatose state, they'd been giving him two different medications to help with the agitated dementia and pain medication for the physical pain he was in. He was not able to communicate or interact by then. He just... slept.

I believe keeping him comfortable or end of life care are the terms.

They offered to move a hospital bed into his room at the hospital for Mom. My brother and his wife invited her to their house for Thanksgiving, too. She called me at work on Tuesday afternoon to ask me to help her make a decision.

I told her to go to Steve's if she wanted, because there was not anything she could do to help Dad but that if she chose to stay in town, that she should stay at home rather than the hospital, as it would probably take her about 10 minutes to go to the hospital if needed.

"Why suffer through sleeping on a hospital bed the way you did when Dad was in Boise?"

She stayed with him  nearly a week there, did not have a change of clothing or toiletries.

Understandable to forget those things or not consider them in the frantic rush to get him out the door and into the air ambulance. But it took a toll on her physically to sleep on a hospital bed for a week.
She's not in great shape anyway.
So she was physically beat up when she finally got home after a week. She spent the next two weeks in her comfortable bed, was able to bathe and take care of herself, something she hasn't been able to do for a long time because she was taking care of all Dad's needs.

By the time he got out of the hospital, spent a little over a week in a rehab place and finally came home, she was feeling pretty good. Her voice sounded strong, she wasn't foggy and confused the way she had been, and she was better off in every way.

Then he came home and the really hard parts started. Because of the dementia, he was very agitated and combative at night, keeping her awake at all hours and yelling at her and berating her and screaming unintelligibly. While he still had motor function, he'd get pissed and throw things at her. Everything he could reach from the bed would fly at her if she crossed him. Fortunately his aim was terrible.

She was kept running back and forth getting him stuff or calling the ambulance to come get him off the floor. She was exhausted, physically depleted and in a great deal of pain. She's 84 years old and has a lot of her own health issues.

She called me one night in a panic because he was being so mean to her. Saying awful things and screaming himself into deep coughing fits and then being angry with her because 'she made him mad'.

As a family we agreed that if it were Mom in such dire straits and Dad was tasked with taking care of her, he wouldn't. He's have had her in a nursing home as soon as possible. He wouldn't have ignored her there or anything, he would have been there visiting her all the time, but there was no way in hell that he'd be taking care of changing diapers and all the other stuff she was doing for him.

I don't fault him for that, by the way. I would not want to provide full time care for an adult for a myriad of reasons, which is why care homes and traveling nurses and home health care are all things. Mom just felt that it was her duty to do what she was doing and would not have wanted it any other way. But it was too much for her and we were worried.

Steve and Jim stepped in, got some home health care going and dealt with getting POA and other things in order. They did call and keep me informed, and I assured and reassured them that A: I trusted them to do whatever was right and B: I wanted nothing.  If they needed to sell the house to pay for my parents' care, then sell the house. Sell everything. Whatever.

I was also hopeful that would keep us from future conflict over 'stuff'. I told Steve, who really took the lead in all of it, that I knew he would handle things and that if there was something I could do, I would.

So Mom decided to go to Steve's house. It's almost two hours away from where she lives, though.

Jim and his family left town, too. They rented a house on the Oregon coast and their son and his family were going to stay there with them.

So Dad was left in the hospital alone. And while everyone was still asleep at 7:30 on Thanksgiving morning, he died.

I find myself feeling sorry for that. I don't think he knew he was alone, he was on some pretty heavy medication and what was left of his intellect departed about 16 days ago.

It's a lonely end for someone all the same.

I have been sad about it mostly for Mom's sake. Spending 64 years with someone really is a full lifetime, and for all the mental health issues and co-dependency and bumps and potholes and volcanoes and meteor strikes, they did love each other.

Why I've been sort of away...

I find that when I am really stressed, I withdraw and don't communicate much. I'm not sure why, it doesn't really help and it doesn't make me feel better, but there it is.

I wrote awhile back about not wanting to go see Dad, who is rapidly declining.

I have a million reasons for it and I know that various members of my extended family are judging me and believing that my choice is wrong, but I have no control over what they think.

They have no idea about any of the relationship issues I've had with my father over the years. I'm not bothering to enlighten anyone, either. Not their business. They are free to think whatever they think.

Dad is now in hospice care. His 20 some pills a day are no more. He's on two medications so that he will be comfortable for what remains of his time on earth.

My son and his wife were over there last weekend, and I spoke to Matt at length this week. The things he told me made me realize I have made the right decision for my own mental health.

The person who was my father is gone. Dementia took him. All the things that made him occasionally decent are no more.

The ogre side of him, which has never been far from the surface, has taken over. He's always been mean, but because of the cognitive loss, he has no filter at all.

He berates and verbally abuses my mom, he always has, but now it's an art form. That is, if you can understand the words coming from him. Apparently most of what he says is now gibberish, not even actual words. In the past, once he made her cry he figured his daily task was over. But now, he makes her cry off and on all day long.

Despite the fact that he can't help it, I find that I resent him for that.
Not only is she required to tend to his physical needs (think infant here... diapers and feedings) but to sit and listen to his vitriol and anger even though he has few words. She calls the ambulance at least six times a week to come get him off the floor. He can't walk anymore, but he gets agitated in the night and gets out of bed. He usually makes it about 5 to 10 feet before he falls.

She doesn't notice him getting up because she's so exhausted after taking care of him all day that she sleeps through it. He lies on the floor screaming for her.

Based on the difficulty Matt and Amy had in waking her up last weekend when they arrived at the house, he probably is yelling at her for awhile before she wakes up. They arrived about 10 AM, Dad was screaming from the bedroom, "SALLY SALLY SALLY SALLY."

Matt was holding her hand, patting it and shouting, "Grandma!" at her. It didn't wake her up. He said it seemed like two hours but was probably about five minutes or so. She finally did awaken. Dad was lying in his own shit in their bed. They have a nurse who lives at the end of their road and she's been 'on call' for them, so Matt called her. She came to help, but Matt ended up washing the bedding.

I can't say I ever imagined my son having to wash grandpa shit out of sheets and blankets, but I can't deny being a little awestruck that he did it. I know I could not have done it. I'd throw them away. Gagging the entire time.

So he screams at her unintelligibly all day, he's incredibly angry at her for his situation (this isn't new, he has always blamed her for everything anyway) and he has no brain left.

It's truly awful, made worse because her lifetime of fear over things that made him angry is stopping her from putting him in a care facility. Because he 'won't like it'.

I am hoping that she listened to me and at least asked for some bed rails so that he can't just roll out of bed to toddle away. She rarely listens to anything I tell her, though. Dad's anger over my escape from his narcissism turned my mom against me, too. It's just a fucked up relationship. 

We are hoping that with hospice finally being involved, Mom can relax a little and just spend time with him that doesn't involve changing diapers or trying to get him off the floor.

A few weeks ago, my brothers went to see them (fortunately it was a lucid day.. turns out that was actually the last one of those) and Dad signed over power of attorney. Couple days later he was accusing us (the three kids) of forming a 'medical consortium' to steal his money. After that, he quit any kind of conversation, sadly.

Spoiler... there is no money. However, there's a ton of money going out every month that doesn't need to be, one example... Mom signed up for some kind of cosmetic 'club' over a year ago. She got a couple tubes of makeup but they've been billing her a monthly membership.

She's subscribed to Disney Plus on three different devices. That's three accounts for the same thing that are being paid monthly.

She sent money to a questionable charity. They apparently have several different names for the same "charity", so they sent fund raising letters to her from those "other" charities, too. And she sent money to them. Hundreds are deducted from her account every month. She's always been gullible. It hasn't improved with age.

Steve said that there's approximately a thousand a month being wasted on shit like that.

My sister in law (Jim's wife) has been saying for the last three years that they needed to be in assisted living. We all agreed, but getting the parents to agree? Nope.

Now of course there's no point. He won't be around much longer in any residence.

I used to believe in the christian god. I don't anymore, haven't for a really long time. But I want to believe there is some kind of peace for my dad on the other side. I'd like him to find the peace he wasn't able to find on earth.

Dad

He's not doing well. After the anesthesia and anesthesia and anesthesia few years back, he started to lose his cognitive function. He was really bad for awhile, but managed to claw his way mostly back to what passes for sane in his world. He was still prone to rants about really weird things, and fixated on stuff that made no sense, but at least was mentally competent to pay the bills and keep his medication straight.

Always been paranoid. He thinks the government is out to get him. That his phone is tapped. He's been thinking this way since he was a young man. I don't know what prompted it.

He has a lot of health issues. He's been prescribed a bunch of medications, all of which need to be taken on a schedule. Because his marbles fell out, he messed up his medications badly.

Had a couple big huge fights with Mom, she said, "Fine, you take your medicine however you take it."

Which caused more than one pulmonary embolism and LifeFlight and assorted other things.

Due to the prolonged lack of oxygen in the last couple months and his stubborn refusal to listen to Mom, he's completely toasted now.
So confused.
He doesn't even know where he is.

Mom insisted that I call him last week, saying brightly, "Oh he's doing so well! He would just love to hear from you!"

So I called his room. What followed was a surreal 45 minute conversation that I won't forget, although I'm sure he forgot it as soon as we hung up.

He launched into a strange and disjointed recitation about the 'robutts' who were watching him, the fact that he was being 'held incognito' by the government in an 'asylum with 7,000 other people' and some personal stuff that I won't say here. He was angry because he had no glasses (Mom forgot to send them with him in the confusion and urgency of getting him out the door into the ambulance) and no shoes. He hasn't worn shoes in 5 years, just slippers.

My mom thinks he's going to get better and come home. I'm going to be surprised if he even makes it through the next week or two.

Like almost everyone I know or have ever known, my relationship with my parents is complicated. I left home early on the advice of the counselor I was seeing.

That's a whole long story, too.

When I was a sophomore in high school, I had a sort of breakdown when my best friend moved away from our small community of assorted assholes. As a person who is not neurotypical (although I didn't know that then...) I didn't have a lot of friends. It upset my equilibrium, I had NO ONE after she left.

I was still mostly a child. The adults in my home didn't know how to be adults and everything was ugly and mean and angry and I didn't have anywhere I felt safe.

Hollie, my anchor, my friend... was gone.
With her went a huge piece of my heart.

Life at home wasn't great, Dad was not okay, not balanced. I may even write about all this shit eventually, but that morning I couldn't even get ready for school and was a pile of anguish.

In a tone saturated with sarcasm my mom said, "Well. Maybe you need to go see a counselor!"

She was surprised when I agreed. This started my weekly sessions with Bruce Purvine, who helped me more than he ever knew. I've tried to track him down to thank him, but haven't had any luck finding him. I found a counselor by that name in Seattle, but the person who answered my email assured me that he was not the same Bruce.

I don't know how long I saw Bruce, but it couldn't have been more than a few months before he said, "Hey, listen. There's nothing wrong with you. Your entire problem is your dad. He's sick. You need to get out of there. Do have have somewhere you can go?"

Which is how I ended up living with my maternal grandparents in Colorado and never living at home again.

It took many years and a whole lot of introspection. And continued counseling, only this time with the guy who's my biggest fan and strongest advocate.

Eric. The kid I married when I was still a kid myself.
I finally was able to see that Dad was a narcissist.
That he was damaged by his own narcissistic mother.

I felt bad. I wanted to fix things between us, and I tried for years. I wanted to talk about what happened. Nope. Mom and Dad didn't want to discuss it at all, saying that it was in the past. Well, yeah. That's kind of the point.

I wanted to fix things even though I'm aware I wasn't the one who broke the relationships. Never happened.

This is why over the summer, even though he was slipping noticeably every time we talked, I did not go see them. I deserve sanity and to put my own mental health first.

So he was in the hospital in Boise for two weeks, and now he's in a care home not too far from the Oregon border. Apparently they don't have a suitable care facility closer to my mom.

Really, she just doesn't want to put him in a local one because she's afraid of his anger and doesn't want to deal with it. Not that I blame her.

She doesn't realize that he's no longer the same person. She keeps saying she wants to consult him and find out what he thinks about moving here or there or doing this or that or she tries to explain what the doctor is saying.

I am trying not to get exasperated when we talk. This is horrible for her. The person she's been with for 64 years no longer exists and she can't admit that. She thinks he's coming home and that she will be able to care for him. But being in denial isn't helping any part of the situation. It's all just sad and crappy. It's not going to get better.

I don't blame her. I can't imagine how awful this is for both of them.

My empathic self feels pity for Dad.

Imagine being ill and weak and so confused that you don't know where you are. Being changed like a baby. Unable to walk. He's also added Sundowners to the mix and becomes angry and combative in the evenings and into the night.

Matt has a job that takes him all over the state. He was in John Day earlier in the week and saw my mom, then in the same little town as Dad's care home, so was able to drop off his glasses for him.

I talked with Matt last night, and he said that he didn't even recognize his grandfather. The voice didn't help, either, he now has a high pitched and quivering old man voice. My dad did recognize his grandson, but told him the same strange and paranoid things he said to me.

So I haven't felt much like writing here, although I am still reading everyone's blogs.

There are even work things I'd like to share.
Maybe I will get to that this week.

Jesse

About three weeks ago, one of my early kids, Jesse, just popped into my mind.

I hadn't thought of Jesse in a few years, last time I did I looked him up online. He had grown some then, the braces were off and he had a great smile.

He enjoyed drawing, video games, reading and goofing around with the rest of the 1st official group I christened The Fabulous Bumper Boys. There have been more of those over the years, but he was part of the original set.

I last saw him in May of 2008. He was just finishing fifth grade. He'd just had those braces put on, his family was getting ready to move out of state and he was apprehensive about it.

He didn't want to leave the friends he had here, they all got along really well and were a solid bunch. Almost never saw one of them alone, they were usually in a boisterous group, crashing into each other all afternoon. They were loud, often messy at snack time, and full of life. All of them were great kids.

He and all his friends were part of our daily afternoon crew. They made a bit of extra work for us, we redirected them at least four times a day.

We had several one on one discussions over the last few weeks of the school year.

He didn't think people would want to be his friend in the new school.

He was a decent kid. Engaging and inquisitive and eager to learn about all kinds of stuff.

I liked him.

I told him the truth, that moving sucks. When you get to a new school it feels weird. Nothing is familiar, you don't know anyone, you usually end up eating lunch by yourself. You have to learn where the bathrooms are and where your classes are and a whole new routine. It's hard.

"But then, about a month or so into the new school year, you realize that things are starting to make sense. You've found a friend or two or three to hang out with at lunch and after school. You've found an after school club or a sport and you're suddenly comfortable. Jesse, you're going to do fine. Trust me on this."

The last day of school, he brought a little disposable camera.
He approached me and said, "You're one of the things I'm going to miss about this place, can I have a picture with you?"

Of course I said yes.

And Tristan came running over when he saw Sunshine holding the camera. "I wanna be in the picture too!"

Jesse just smiled gently and said, "Sure."

So a photo of me with Tristan and Jesse went to New Mexico when Jesse left.

Last weekend, I was looking up the kids I used to take care of way back then, and because Jesse had a unique last name, he was easy to find. But his FB page, which had been there 6 years or so ago, wasn't there. I did find his name, though. On the page of a person who tagged him in a post and was lamenting how senseless the act of violence that took him away was.

I looked up his obituary. Learned that he had done well in life. After graduating from high school he'd gone to college, switched tracks a year or so ago and was in training to become a chef and had a dream of opening his own restaurant.

He was still artistic and had parents, an older brother and many friends who loved him.

Jesse was murdered on February 15th this year.
He was 26 years old.

I was right.

It should not be a surprise.
Being right is a thing I am usually good at.

I had to go to the office yesterday.
When the pandemic hit, our offices were in the process of moving. We had the entire main floor of our office building.
It was large, full of all kinds of stuff, disorganized and a little crazy.

In the fall when the orders for restocking sites came it, everyone's little office cubicles were stacked to the top with things like beanbag chairs and shelving units and boxes of LEGO. The supply room was bursting with markers and pencils and paperclips and pens and paper and a million other little things that most people needed to have a successful site.

So the effort was being made to consolidate the whole thing into half of the floor of the building and then the pandemic happened.
Suddenly we were closed.
Almost no one was working in our company.
Schools were shut down.

Well, now we're sort of ready to be back up and running. There are boxes and piles of stuff all over the office. It's one really big room, no dividers or cubicles, at least not yet. I don't know if there will be or if they're going to take advantage of the open space to make a big, friendly, everyone-in-your-business sort of environment.

Either way, I am so, so glad I am not part of it. I won't be collating papers, sitting in the middle of a wide open space where everyone can see everyone else.  I won't be making runs to Costco, I won't be driving to the office  EVERY day, either. Which is something I didn't actually consider when I decided to turn down the promotion. You'd think I would have thought about that, but nooooo.

Everyone there is very nice. They all seem to be comfortable with the level of chaos. Computers are hooked up, phones are being answered, everyone looks happy.

But there's no space to be alone.
No quiet spots.

The corner office, which does have a door and a big window, is occupied by three people, the next room over is a big conference room where several people have set up some sort of base of operations and where I sat with my manager person and the guy who used to run the program at the school where I have ended up. I sat there with them for over an hour, talking about the site, getting an understanding of the school's culture and discussing any possible child issues.

While we sat there talking, people had to come in and out gathering some papers and other things.

I learned that all our sites are moving on from the indestructable old flip phones that we used for years and years to brand new iPhones.

::sigh:::

I don't love Apple products, but I am sure we got a discount.
No one asked my opinion before taking the plunge.

I also learned that everyone will be getting a company email address so that people aren't using their personal emails. I'm sure there are good reasons for it, but I really don't want one. I wasn't consulted about that, either. (imagine that!!)

My impression of our new office is that it's chaotic and haphazard in some ways, organized and managed as it should be in other ways. They have paperwork done on time, children are placed ahead of profits, they respect the people who work there, pay them fairly and are appreciative of our efforts.

It's a great company to work for, but my heart is with the kids.

In other news, I drove up to my old school today and dropped off a couple cards and some candy for some of the people who were so wonderful to me there. Wrote some heartfelt words to them.

I got a 'thank you' email this evening from the school's counselor. She was, as usual, kind. She expressed my moving on as a loss for the kids and the entire school community. Made me a little weepy.

So school starts in Portland Public Schools a week from today. I've embarked on my last week of staying up late and sleeping in.

After talking to the former person who worked at my new school, I think it will be a great fit. I'll be meeting my supervisor person there on Monday so I can get a look at the space and think about what I will be bringing with me. I've planned a couple easy projects (we aren't sure when new supplies will be provided, so we will be depending on what's in stock at our respective schools) and I have the things I need here at home to take in *for* those projects. My kids won't be bored. Neither will I.

I do hate having to trade my six minute commute for a 20 to 30 minute one, but my choices are limited.

Except for no longer working in a familiar place, I think things will be okay.
I told the head guy that I did not want a supervisory position, that things in my personal life are too busy and too much is going on.

"I need a job I can do in my sleep, really. And I frequently DO this job in my sleep. My dreams are often filled with me taking care of kids... first aid and protecting them from monsters and doing craft projects. This is what I am meant to be doing. So thank you so much for the offer, but I want to continue doing what I do so well."

Speaking of sleep... nearly midnight.

ZZZ ya later.

Notes and Goodbyes

Five years ago this month, I stopped working for Champions*.

(*Profits before everything else in the universe, including the kids.)

I'd enjoyed working there (mostly) for 12 years.
There was an excellent manager and person in charge of our little area. She was supportive, warm, good with kids, caring... the total package. That link leads to a little about Georgia, who was one of the best managers I've ever worked with.

Being in touch with her on Facebook isn't the same as seeing her on occasion, though.
I miss her. She gave me an excellent reference when I started with my current employer, though, and if she were still with Champions, would not have been able to. They do the same thing so many other chickenshit employers do and only verify that the person was employed by the company. Nothing about reliability or competence.

But if she hadn't quit working there, I might actually still be there myself. Although they pay shit wages, I enjoyed my job. I left solely due to a crappy manager. I'd still like to kick that bitch in the taco.

Ah well. Ancient history now. I left.
I landed in a special place, though.

Despite the organization I work for having, um,  some flaky people in and out of there (no one stayed a full school year in at least 8 years before I got there) the school personnel welcomed me with friendly faces and helpful advice and support.

The office staff and counselor at the new school were particularly kind to me.
They treated me like school staff. They were supportive, helpful, friendly and always willing to do a little extra when we were trying to locate a kid or figure out if one had been absent.

I always remembered to bring them a little snack the first day of school, made them cards and little crafts now and then, too.

So this year, of course, I won't be there to give them those little extras that cost me so little and meant so much to them. But because of how incredibly kind they have  been to me, I made them each a card. I have some candy and some little Care Bear figurines to stick in the bag, too.

I know it will be hard to go up there and give those things to them, and I'll probably cry a little, but I still think they're worth the effort. They were amazing and they didn't have to be.

One of the easiest things to do in this job is form connections with people. It comes naturally to me, at least in that setting, and those relationships make a great foundation. My plans are always to put down roots if I can and not move on. I want to provide the continuity and reliability that's so important for kids, especially kids who spend more waking hours with me than their parents during the week.

I know I'm not their mom... but we *are* a family.
And the people in the office/school counselor/custodian and various others are part of my family, too.

It hurts me to say goodbye again.

:::sigh:::

What 'worry' looks like with my folks

I didn't add my mom's current physical condition to my last post.

After the fall that broke her back, she started bending over a little. And then a little more. And more. Now, after so many years of incorrect posture, more falls, refusal to take care of herself,  she's bent at the waist like she's walking along looking for bugs.

She can't stand up straight and hasn't been able to for many years. Between the damage to her body from all the falls and osteoporosis, she is really in sad shape. She has refused to use a walker indoors Oh there isn't room with my furniture... You know, instead of MOVING THE DAMN FURNITURE.

The refusal to use a walker or cane has exacerbated her condition(s) according to her physical therapists and doctors. Not that it's changed her mind. For whatever reason, it was just too much trouble to use a cane or walker to get around and now it doesn't really matter after the cumulative effect of so many years.

Add to that her sense of purpose. She pays zero attention to where she's putting her feet and doesn't bother to look ahead to plan the route she's going to take from point A to point B. She just... decides to go, jumps up and goes as fast as she can. She frequently trips, crashes into walls and furniture like an old drunk, and yeah, falls now and then, too.

About 10 years ago I was visiting them just 'cause.
We were all set up in the front yard with tables and buckets and gloves and doing a little tie dye.

We had brought a hammer out with us because not only was the deck built by amateurs, it was getting old and it wasn't unusual to see a nail sticking up an inch or two while one was walking along. Four or five times I'd grabbed the hammer and smacked a nail back down to avoid tripping or my mom falling.

Mom was doing her usual headlong dash along the deck to get something (I'd already told her twice to STOP DEADHEADING THE FLOWERS FROM THE DECK DO YOU WANT TO FALL AGAIN?!?) when she tripped over a loose board and crashed to the deck.

My dad, who's a worrier, reacted in his usual kind and solicitous manner. While trying to yank her up off the boards by her arms, he snarled "What the fuck is wrong with you?" yankyank "Goddammit, Sally, I should take this hammer," yankyank "And bash in your fucking head!"

yankyankyank

"Dad. Dad. DAD!!!"

He blinked at me and temporarily stopped yanking on Mom's arms. Then went right back to it.

yankyankyank

"DAD! STOP!!!"

"I have to get her up!"

"Here. Let me help."
I moved the sturdy kitchen chair I was sitting on over where Mom was still flopping around on the deck. Sat back down in it.

"She has to get herself up, Dad, it's easier. Believe me,  I know." I kept my tone calm more for my mom's sake than anything. She was upset enough.

To Mom I said, "I will sit in the chair so it won't tip. You can use it to pull yourself up when you're ready."

It took a few minutes, and I had to tell my dad to, "Leave her alone, she can manage!" when he tried three more times to just go yank her up with brute strength.

He's not a great listener.

I hate changes.

I really do.

I was less-than-thrilled to get an email from the principal last week asking me to come get my things out of the school.
"Hi, Susan. The district is asking for all belongings, things hanging on walls, etc. to be cleared out of rooms.  Unfortunately, the ask is no different for our partners.  We will be on site 6/3, and the following week on 6/8, 6/9, and 6/10.  As per the district, you are allowed to bring one adult to help you with your closing out efforts.

I hope you and your family are continuing to stay safe.  Please let me know if you have any questions.

Best,
Principal Man
I hate it.

I'm sure y'all remember what happened last year when the district tried to dump my program.

It seems reasonable to me to think that my program will never be allowed back into the building or ANY building in this district.

Considering they did not follow written policies and procedures 'cause Flunky was kissing the ass of Fluffy and her lovely ferret-faced spousal unit and Morally Bankrupt Daycare Inc was brought in.

And because it was that rotten hag Fluffy who started all that,  I feel personally singled out and I resent the SHIT out of it.
For all the good it will do.

So the plan is for me to go in on Wednesday and get all my personal stuff out of there. My employer has to come in and pack up the rest and take it out and who the hell knows if I'll ever see any of it again.

I am not allowed to pack up the other things that belong to the program (most of which I've donated) because I am a furloughed employee and collecting unemployment.

Lyssa is going to come help me. I'm glad I'll have an opportunity to say goodbye to school staff.

And Wednesday afternoon I'll be standing with them to wave goodbye to the entire school as they parade past in their cars with their families.

Some of the kids will not be in cars, they'll be parading on foot across the street. There will be no physical contact. No one will hug me. I won't have to smile, though, 'cause we're supposed to be wearing masks.

Mine will be tie dyed.
I did call the manager person and ask if I could wear an official uniform shirt while I wave.

After some discussion amongst themselves, they decided that would be okay. I hate those damn shirts, but I feel like I should be wearing one.

I have a terrible feeling that the parade will be my final goodbye to a place I've come to love.

I really hate changes.

Today in the world of child care

We live in an age where there's an actual hotline to report child abuse.

Where they tell you that 'If you're calling between 1 and 4 PM, call volume is usually high, but please stay on the line'.

Then you talk to a person who listens carefully to everything you have to say.
In this particular case, I had a lot to say.
I couldn't write anything down while the child was speaking to me, but when the child went off to play with friends, I scrawled down as much as I could remember.

Let me tell you, there is no way that child is making *any* of this up.

Then you're asked a series of questions... such as the child's age, where they live/go to school and names of other family members.

It's not an easy thing to make that call.
What if your call is the one that causes a child to be removed from his/her birth family?
The horror stories about foster care are out there.

Or what about the stories about how a child fell through the cracks and nothing was done until it was too late?

There are all kinds of reasons to be apprehensive about dialing the number that's been programmed into every telephone I've owned in the last 13 years.

Then there's the big reason to make the call anyway. That young person who is talking to you with such openness.

And when a child trusts you enough to tell you what is happening, you damn well better listen. And then do everything you can to save that little person.

I love my job on most days. Today was no different, I found many things to enjoy and had a good time with 'my' kids.

Some days, though, my job causes me some pain.

The manager I spoke to was concerned about whether or not I was okay, offered to send someone out in case I wanted to go home. I assured him that I was fine, that I'm quite good at compartmentalizing and maintaining my equilibrium in front of kids.

I can't deny shedding a few tears later, though.

Suddenly

I have this lovely cousin, Kathy.
She's about 10 years older than I am, but we've always gotten along, even when I was just a kid.

She was homeschooling way before it was cool. Although it was for religious reasons, whereas my homeschooling was not, she was still a lot of help when we began our homeschool adventure. She had a lot of supplies and advice that she passed on to me.

When I was pregnant with Lyssa, Kathy was my go-to person. If I went into labor or needed someone to keep Matt, she was more than willing to do so.

When Lyssa was a tiny baby, our little community found e coli in a routine water test. They said there was 'nothing' to worry about, but I was nursing a baby. Didn't want to take any chances. Bill and Kathy picked up some water for me at the grocery store.

While Kathy was putting groceries away, Bill jumped into his truck and drove over to my house to bring me the water. I was sitting in a chair by the window when he drove into our driveway. I said, "Who's parking in our driveway?"

Matt was six at the time. He looked out the window and said, "I don't know!!" Then he looked again, and in a surprised tone said, "No! Wait! It's that guy who lives at Kathy's house!!"

That became a standard joke when we saw Bill. He'd say, "Yeah, I'm just that guy who lives at Kathy's house."

He completely remodeled the home they lived in. He could (and did) do it all. Rewired, tile, flooring, painting. He turned it into an absolutely beautiful place. It was amazing, he did it all himself.

When we got to the point where my math skills could no longer keep up with Matt, Kathy's husband Bill offered to work with Matt. He did, too. For about a year, Matt went to their house once a week or so for math. Bill wouldn't accept any money or anything else for his assistance. He just liked being kind. Helpful. Being 'that guy who lives at Kathy's house'.

On June 30th, they celebrated their 44th wedding anniversary. Kathy posted on Facebook about their plans to retire in a year and go to Arizona in their 5th wheel. Posted photos of the flowers he sent to her. He had done so once a month for every one of those 44 years.

They had four children together. A lovely family, well-loved.

And Saturday night, about eight o' clock, Bill had a massive heart attack. Although he was taken to the hospital, there was nothing they could do to save him.

He was gone in half an hour.

It's not fair, of course.
Not right that he didn't get the chance to retire, hang out with his wife while they traveled a bit, see his grandchildren finish growing up and become the amazing people they will certainly be. Not fair.

Of course some members of the family find great comfort in their religion, something I would never, ever take away from them.

I don't feel that way, though.

I just feel sad.
He was a good man.

Huh. Still hurts.

I had the day off on Friday, which was really nice. I'm enjoying quite a bit about my new job (despite that feeling of being adrift) but no matter how long I do it, getting up at 5 in the morning will never bring me joy. I had intended to sleep in, but ended up having to get up and peeeeeeeeeee at 5 and never got back to sleep. So I stayed up instead of sleeping in until 7, which had been my original intention.

I needed to visit Goodwill, the dollar store, grab a couple grocery items in preparation for 'the storm of the century' and had to mail some stuff at the post office.

Lyssa has been home pretty much 24/7 since she got back from her summer vacation. I invited her to come with me on Friday morning. We got to Goodwill a few minutes after it opened, which is really the best time to go there. Not so crowded and frantic.

As I rounded the coat rack, I saw Sarah and Joel, a brother/sister team from my old school. They were with their mom.

I was so happy to see them. They were some of my favorite kids. Ah, who am I kidding... they're all my favorite kids.

We talked for a few minutes. Apparently the letter I sent did not reach them. I don't know what happened to it, I specifically remember addressing it, reminding myself that when I first had Joel in my program I had transposed a few letters in his last name until I finally learned to spell it.

I know I sent the letter, but I also remember that there were two different addresses on the paperwork and I didn't know which one to use. So whatever, they didn't get my letter.

On the first day of school they were shocked that I wasn't there because they'd had no notice. That was one of the reasons I sent the letter... wanted my families to have a chance to prepare the kids to see a new face in the place or to find a different day care if they wanted to.

She asked me what happened, but I didn't feel that I could really say too much. I didn't want to talk in front of the kids. So I gave her my email address and asked her to email me.

She said that the program is NOTHING like it was. Said it several times, in fact. "It's just not the same at all."

She said the person they hired to work there is nice enough but 'clueless' and that she had personally recommended my program to some friends who signed their kids up. She said that she feels like she needs to keep telling them that, "It's not the same. Not even close."

During the course of our conversation, I kept feeling my eyes fill up and kept using the sleeve of my jacket to wipe the tears away. I was surprised by the depth of my feelings. Once again, angry with that goddamn Fluffy for fucking things up for me.

But it was nice to see the kids, I asked if I could give them both a hug, which they allowed.

I'm glad I was able to say at least a little to their mom. I hope she does email me, I will send her a copy of the letter I sent to parents and fill her in a little bit.

I'm not sure if I regret keeping most of the details to myself, but in the end, the details really only matter to me. I'm gone and the reasons don't matter, they'll either stick with the program or not, as their needs dictate.

I don't expect people to try to find new care for their children in a show of solidarity, having day care right in the school is a good thing for families. I know that when Matt was a little guy in school, I was horrified by the idea of him riding a school bus or being transported from school to a different location. There is a promise of safety when your kid just has to go down to the cafeteria instead of getting in a van or bus and going somewhere else.

I do regret having to leave, though. I don't know if I will ever get past that. Probably not.

I worry every time I go to Goodwill that I'm going to run into that goddamn Fluffy, though. I scan the parking lot for the Bitchmobile and if I don't see it, breathe a sigh of relief. But I know she likes to shop there, and I'm worried that eventually we will run into each other.

Know how you plan ahead for things? I don't have a plan for that.
Probably should, huh?