Your papers, please
Written on September 1, 2010 at 9:22 pm, by bk
With my brother in law winging his way back to Wisconsin, the house is returning to normal, dammit. While he was here, everyone was on their best behavior; not like that was enough to mask a lot. But it masked some of the angst that permeates this place like condensation on a cold milk bottle in a warm room. A nurse, and a very good one, he’d taken the lead of handling his mother which left my wife in a free bird like mode. Lots of smiles and friendly little conversations which strategically avoided any subject that was even marginally serious. Around here, it’s all about image.
It’s nearly 1pm and so far, not a single soul has so much as peeked in at me to see whether I’m upright or stuck in an ungainly position, frozen in the grip of rigor mortis. Or is that livor mortis? I’m not sure. I was just reading a detective novel and they spoke of lividity and livor mortis and I’m not sure if that was a typo or just an expression that television, movies and crime novels missed. I’d ever heard the expression before. Maybe you know.
I did manage to rouse myself from sleep just before 8 am so I could say goodbye to my brother in law. Living in Wisconsin, I may not see him again and I like the guy. He’s the only one in the family that I can have a conversation with; without it ending in someone’s leaving in a huff. I could feel the change –a sea change– starting last night. It was kind of a sneak preview of life after my brother in law left.
My wife had gone out to have dinner with a girl friend of hers. I knew she was going but wasn’t sure when she was leaving. She said she’d check in before she left. So when I went looking for her and didn’t find her, I asked her daughter if she’d left already. She had. So I said thanks and went back to my room. A few minutes later I decided to go get some take out and so I got dressed and wobbled out the door. I returned 20 minutes later with my bag of vittles and saw that the message light on my Droid was blinking urgently. I had a voicemail.
I dialed and then listened to my wife read me the riot act. She said her daughter called her and said I was very angry and upset that she’d left, and that I was slamming doors and snarling at everyone. She went on that she was just trying to have a nice dinner and she wasn’t going to let me screw it up. With a few names that didn’t sound very much like “dear” or “honey” the line went dead. I tried to call her back to ask what the hell she was talking about, but she had blocked my number. “The person you are calling has elected not to receive calls from your number…” or something like that was what I expected to hear. But it just rang and rang. I didn’t even know you could do that, and made a note to myself to see if I could block everyone on earth except for my children and few friends. Maybe the VA too, but I wasn’t certain.
I was able to leave a message though, and so I did using exactly the same tone she did and told her that her daughter was full of crap and I was tired of her damn theatrics and her exaggerations and lies. It’s true. I am. I ended the message by telling her sweetly to stick it up her a__.
She rolled in about 9:30 and came in all sweetness and light, but I wasn’t having any of it. I’d been stewing for three and a half hours and so all I had to say was that I was damned fed up with her daughter’s bullshit, and I’d drink hemlock before I ever spoke to her again. My wife, surprisingly said she understood and explained that she was moving the kids into the rental home she owned. In that way, she could still keep them living rent free. I smiled and said great. And then told her that I would go along when she was shopping and pay for whatever we or she needed myself because I would never again contribute a singe dime to their financial lives. The kids are pressed for money because they bought a pair of $30,000 cars and their entire income goes to paying them off. I figure life’s a bitch and it’s time for them to stand on their own legs and pay for their own errors, like everyone else on the planet.
The worm had turned and it took my wife completely off guard. She wasn’t used to me talking to her the way she talks to me. She said so and I told her to get used to it. So it’s been nice and chilly around here and again a first, it doesn’t bother me. I explained what I had done and was doing to my best friend when he called to check in. He hooted and said “fist bump.” It filled me with bravado, which will probably not last. I love my wife in spite of everything and that tends to make me a bit of a coward when I talk to her. I usually feel like John Goodman as Rosanne’s husband when Rosanne is PMSing. So my sudden venom was a surprise, to both of us, really.
Anyway, I took the reins and called and made an appointment to pick up my newly rehabilitated mobility scooter, made VA appointments with Oncology and Xray and recorded the appointments in my Droid. Normally she does that stuff. But if she isn’t interested in taking her position as my caregiver seriously, then I guess I’ll just handle it all myself. I need to get used to it because my premonition, given all of the events of the past two and a half years, that I won’t be here much longer.
To hedge my bet, I called the VA social services group and made an appointment to speak with a counselor. Social services is the arm that helps with benefit retrieval and I’m applying for a home purchase certificate. My disability qualifies me for assistance in buying a home, and makes it kind of easy to get a house, especially if it is a HUD foreclosure. It makes me feel vulture-like in a way, because these are homes that someone screwed by the credit collapse used to be their castle. It feels a little like constructing a future on someone’s broken dreams. I also want to get them to replace my limp-along scooter and get me a real one so I can do my own shopping and stuff.
In a moment of introspection I see that I am resigned to a failed relationship, and try as hard as I can, I can’t find any fault in my doing it. She loves me as she loves her cats, and she’s threatening to have one of them put to sleep because she doesn’t like its attitude towards the other cats. I wonder if I should start locking my door and night or keeping my pistol crossbow on the nightstand. She doesn’t like my attitude either. This love stuff can get awfully complex and confusing. Just ask me.
The good news of the day is that I have my brand spanking new Midwest Micro computer. A multi-processor powerhouse to replace my ailing laptop and that piece of junk I bought from uBid. I bought it with the money I saved up so my wife and I could take a romantic trip up to Ainsworth Hot Springs. But with no romance, it seems like using part of the money for a computer is a good investment. I may not be romantic, but the internet allows us to take little mental vacations as site after site is visited in the typical tourist style. While I was at it, I bought a few books for my Kindle too. I have the feeling I will need to fill my time with lone pursuits rather than visiting with family members.
The Zithromax antibiotics seem to be doing a good job on my pneumonia. I’m not having to stop typing because I’m out of breath from laborious keystrokes. I only had a single coughing fit as I did my phone work setting up appointments. I’d probably dump this bug lot faster if I would stop going out to eat at take out joints, but a guy has to eat. There’s a ton of food in the house, but all purchased to accommodate the tastes of my wife’s family, with the odd item or two for me. That’s okay, but my wife only knows a couple of things I like and so she always buys those few things, and now I’m kind of tired of them. It’s too bad she staunchly refuses to read Deludia; she claims to hate technology. But that doesn’t stop her from having an account at Facebook. Of course, if she did read my words, it would no doubt not be any revelation to, just another reason to be angry that I’m kept in such a constant state of upset. C’est la vie.I’m surprised her daughter doesn’t read it and relate it all to her. She lives to be a thorn in my side. she’s reminiscent of the Soviet political officers in cold war movie dramas, except nobody asks me for my papers.
So far.
