Time and changes

As March grows, I feel the feeling and remember last year.  Last March, I got a phone call which changed everything.  Some for the best and some for the worst.  The upheaval that call created was both physical and emotional and a change in responsibility.  Thinking back on all of it I cannot help the feelings that are bubbling up.

I grew up in a dysfunctional family; just last year I found a name for what my mother is and what my father has tendencies for;  Narcissism.  My father remarried when I was in my early twenties.  She was a woman who pretended to be a Christian but her actions were not.  She had only one child; a son. She liked to smoke, drink, and gamble.    My father allowed this woman to push me  especially out of his life.  Oh he would call me sometimes but he rarely ever visited me and when I began having children, he only visited the oldest ones twice when they were babies.  He never knew the younger two.  He only saw any of them when I made the effort (despite having so little means) to drive up to Vegas to see him. Even then, we never were invited to his home; we always had to meet somewhere else.   He never invited me to his home with his wife after I had kids.  Once, we drove there to see him with the three girls and when they got up late and had to be fed, we couldn't meet them at the time they chose so when we were unable to do so, they flatly refused to meet with us at all.  That was so hurtful;  my children were being rejected as was I and I was hurt and angry.

Then the unthinkable happened;  my father's wife died last March.  Just before she died, her son contacted me to let me know HE was their power of attorney.  We drove there to see my dad in rehab as soon as he called to say she had died because they lived in Vegas away from all family or friends.  I felt I couldn't just leave him there alone and with no one near.   I saw a very weak, old, skinny man who couldn't stop talking about all that he had missed and about his perfect wife.  The more time I spent with him the more I realized how stubborn and sefish he was.  I began to like him less and less.  My compassion for him was diminishing moment by moment yet I couldn't abandon him.  Call it compassion or stupidity but I just couldn't walk away and let him die.

My step-brother and his girlfriend revealed a selfish streak when they wouldn't even allow me to remove a picture of myself and my brothers to make copies for myself;  I also was able to get a copy of the wills and trust papers only to find that my father placed his own mother's well being and home in jeopardy of being taken out from under her by his wife or her son if he had died first.  My grandmnother was then 96 years old and had lived on that land since she was 9 years old!  His duplicity and stupidity in allowing himeslf to be so manipulated so that if he had died his wife and her son got everything, including my grandmother's only home,  made me furious.  I told my grandmother what he had done.  She got him to put the property back in her name ONLY at my insistance.  When the step brother could see that my grandmother and I were not going to allow him to use my father for his own ends; he took the money my dad offered him (which was from my step-mom's account) and left; he  put it in writing that he gave up the power of attormey and all claims against my dad and his estate.

This left me scrambling to get my father's care and welfare worked out.  At first I did what my father asked of me but I soon realized he was addicted to painkiller drugs and  I had to start making decisions which looked mean at first but which ultimately saved his life.  This was so time consuming and hard for me.  I was not used to bossing around my parent;  it took a lot of getting used to.  I even had to do things he didn't like such as getting rid of some of his things because they smelled of smoke and the doctor said he should live without them.

The day I had to walk into his apartment for the first time was so emotional for me;  I cried because I had never been invited in over 20 years to their home.  It was awful;  it smelled like an ashtray and the carpet and some furniture was black from her smoking.   She said she couldn't sit in church because of her fibromyalgia but she could sit at casino slot machines or at bingo every day?  How could he have been so stupid as to not see her for the lying, smoking, drinking, gambling bar fly that she was?  Her only son didn't even return for her burial!

As my husband and I went through his things to pack them and move  him,  I began to see evidence that her gambling cost them so much money.  I was horrified at the amount of money she went through and at the amount of money they sent to fundamentalist Christian groups to "buy" their way into God's good graces because they both KNEW they were not living the life they professed to believe.  I became disgusted in the extreme at their hypocrisy.  I was especially angry that they could spend so much money on these things but never sent my children a dime for birthdays or Christmas.  Not that they owed us but that their sefishnss at not wanting to even see their only grandchildren, much less send them a dollar, was awful.  Her son never had any kids so mine were the ONLY ones between  them.

She was so selfish in wanting him all to herself (as well as his money all to herself) that she persuaded him (and he let her!) to stay away from his only grand kids.  Now he is filled with remorse and asks why they won't see him.  At first I tried to be kind but eventualy I just told him that they don't know him and they have no connection with him because he ignored them all those years.  I told him it is too late now; they really don't want to see him and especially not after the tons of trouble and stress he caused me this past year.  I didn't tell him to hurt him;  he just kept asking and asking so I felt it was unfair to keep lying to him and giving him hope.  He needs to get on with his life in assisted living.

I had to take away his car because the doctors say he cannot drive.  I had to make others responsible for his medication management and administration because he almost overdosed and killed himself more than once.  I had to put him in assisted living because I have no room for him in my rented home and he needs more care than I can give.   I had to take over his finances because he would have used them to get more drugs or to rent a car and drive.  He already put a man in the hospital last year before I was able to take the car away and he had no remorse about the injuries the man sustained.  All he could think about was his MONEY. 

I was sickened by him and still feel disgust every time I have to see him.  How awful is that?  I rarely call him (it costs me to do so as he lives 3 hrs and a lower elevation from me because of his CHF).  I rarely visit him because the cost of gas is too high.  We had to move him three times; the money he gave me to protect it from the injured man is gone because of his bad choices.  He ran through over $20,000 in less than a year because of his addiction and my not knowing how bad things were.  Had I known, I would have only moved him once into the assisted living place he is in now and saved him a lot of money and me and my husband a lot of time, energy and heartache.   Hindsight is always better than current vision.

The feelings I am having about this time last year are jumbled into sadness, anger, hope and feeling good that I did the right thing despite my disgust.  He is alive, in a place which has things for him to do, he is being carefully managed medically and he has friends.  Instead of revenge, I can sleep at night because I did the compassionate and humane thing.  Even though some of it was painful for both of us and it is an uneasy relationship (he hates being controlled by me) I know he is alive to live more years.   More than anything, I did it for my grandmother because he is her only son and walking away would have devastated her.  I love her and could not bear to do anything which would cause her hurt. 

At least this year I can look forward to my son's birthday on March 11 without having to rush to Vegas to deal with my dad's mess.  This time, I face March with hope and happiness because my youngest child and only son turns ten soon.  And I can know that through it all, I was an example to my children for what being like Ghandi, Christ, MLK, and many others  really means; love your neighbor; even if he is your disgusting and selfish and neglectful father.  Do it because that is the right and compassionate and kind and humane thing to do.  Revenge doesn't taste sweet;  compassion does.

Letting go...again

Once upon a time, there was a little baby.  He was round and sweet with ten fingers and ten toes.  He had huge brown eyes and dark, long eyelashes.  His baby soft hair was curly with those springy open curls that wrap around your fingers when you touch them.  He was smart and so adorable.  His skin was a light brown and soft as only a baby's skin can be.  He had the most lilting laugh, bubbly and wonderful to hear.  I loved him, cared for him, fed him, changed his diapers, held him, kissed his toes and fell in love with him so deeply.  I was twelve years old.  


As he grew, I took his little hand and showed him the world.  I watched him, protected him, and defended him.  When the typhoon raged at night, I would steal into his room, which was the farthest from everyone's,  and carry him to mine and place him into my double bed so he could be with me; in case he awoke in fear.  I held him close and comforted him when he was afraid.  I played with him and his little friends and dressed him up and took him trick-or-treating on Halloweens.  I made tents for him and helped him play.  I washed his clothes and cleaned his  room.  I made his lunch and ate with him.  When he was six years old, I carried him on my back up and down the hills of Jerusalem because his little feet were too tired to go as far as he wanted to go.  When he was in school, I baked and decorated cookies and cupcakes for Halloween and Christmas and brought them to his class.  I drove him to concerts and made banners for us to hold so we could scream our lungs out;  I didn't know who the bands were but he did.  I drove him out in the forest to get him out of the house after his accident because he hated being cooped up.  I played "spoons" with him and his friends and made him designer look-alike shirts.
I drove him and his friends to midnight showings of Rocky Horror Picture Show and did all the fun stuff with the squirt guns and rice.  Then I drove them to late-night fast food places so they could squirt the window cashiers.  We laughed and laughed and had so much fun.  When other grown sisters would have been off doing their own thing; I spent time with him and his friends so he could go places because he couldn't drive yet.  I treated him  to movies, lunch out, and concerts.  


I loved watching  him grow and change.  I remember him calling the storm "roughy funder" and seeing his eyes light up at Christmas time.  I remember him laughing and running outside and  his  amazing eloquence.  I remember his jokes and his freckles.  I remember his playfulness and caring.  I remember his intelligence; he was so smart and insightful.  I remember how sweet he was when  I tucked him in for nap time or bed time; he didn't want to go but he was so good he would do it anyway.  He was always so well behaved and a good friend to his buddies.  His loyalty and generosity were wonderful to see. 




I got married when he was six years old and went away but I came back a year later and stayed for several years.  I moved out again with a boyfriend but came back again when that didn't work out.  I took care of him when our mother went to Texas and took him camping with me because he liked camping.  The one day, I married again, he was 15 and gave me away.  After that, we rarely saw each other because I moved away and began raising my own family.  


Yet I never forgot that little boy, my baby brother, deep in my heart.  He has a place, a him-shaped place in my heart that no one else can ever fill.  



Now we are both grown and we cannot relate to one another.  Our mother has damaged us both and has tried ( and succeeded) to stir dissention between us.  He has a wife and children but he thinks I am the wrong one, the overreacting one.  We grew up in a dysfunctional home, our mother was a narcissist who wove her web of harm to me and favoritism to him.  Despite this, I always loved him, I never begrudged him his successes or felt jealous of his money or his life.  I just want him to be happy because he is the first child I ever loved and cared for and I cannot imagine wanting to be (or have)  better than him. He feels like my first child but not.


But now we are apart;  he is still in the dysfunction while I have been through therapy and can  no longer tolerate being hurt by him or our mother so I have had to walk away.  This year seems full of walking-aways.    I feel deep grief and sadness;  I have loved him as long as he has lived, almost 40 years,  and there is a hole in my heart still shaped like him that cannot be filled.  He brushes off  my deep feelings for him and only when we relate on a superficial level does he show a softness to me  when he looks at me and even more when he looks at my children.  Yet when I mention the dysfunction; he grows hard and condescending.  This reaction is not his fault (because of the dysfunction)  but it feels like a knife is turning in a fresh and unhealed wound.  


My baby brother.  I miss you, I love you, why do you have to suffer and why does that suffering mean I cannot relate to you?  Why can't I help you?  This hurts so badly; as though he has died.   Why can't we be close?  Why can't we be friends?  And will the pain  ever go away?