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Don’t come for me unless I send for you

Minefields of red, rough patches traverse Mom’s forehead. Planted by the mixture of forced heat from the family room vent and the winter air, they  are a hazard Rosie remedies daily. She shoves her four fingers into her mouth and gives them a good, solid licking.

I am struck  at how this movement is so similar to how she’d help us put on our winter mittens as kids. The crisscrossed, colored yarn hanging from each sleeve became small circles she’d shove our 4 fingers in. Then, quickly, she’d usher us out to make a snow fort so she could get some peace. Today, I’m guessing her 4-fingered approach provides her with less comfort than an empty house did years ago. So, I intervene attempting a more conventional approach.

Mom, you want some lotion for your face? See that bottle right next to you?

She looks at me like I’m nuts.

In the quietest, most constant voice I can muster–I see you rubbing your face. It must hurt, Mom. I do the same circling motion on my face I’ve seen her do. See, mine is dry too, but this lotion helps.  I model for her, putting a small amount of Lubriderm in my hand and up to my face.

Noooo, I already did that. She deadpans me. I don’t need to do it again. No, you’re not going to tell me what to do. I don’t want to do that.

Silence.

I turn away from her. Exasperated, I talk to the couch cushions that face me.

Well, then continue to basically lick your face, Mom. Pretty much feels like leather I am guessing.

Or shit–your face must feel like SHIT. I say that to myself in my head.  Fuck.

I am tired. Attempting to not get held captive by grief.

Crying in the car or shower is my typical mode of operation when my eyeballs cooperate. For a crier, I am not a slobbering mess. At all.  Instead, I have a refrain from Sia that I secretly belt out in my head:

I’ve got thick skin and an elastic heart

I’m like a rubber band until you pull too hard

 

To be a rubber band, it’s about the business of doing: wrestling compression socks onto Dad’s crusted, old-man feet, weigning him as his doctor instruced, handing the pills, the water, the glasses, doing the cooking. Helping Mom brush her teeth, crushing her pills, cajoling her back into the house. Just trying to get shit done.

I just do the doing.

I don’t have time for being.

Being sad. Being afraid. Being lonely.

Being anybody, but Joe and Rosie’s daughter. God, I never even realized this until I am typing these words.

With all this doing, my heart has been taking some tugging. Unlike the video with Shia and Sia, our cage isn’t some merry-go-round of failed relationships. It’s the damn Am-y-loid that’s holding us hostage over @ 1202 S. Patton.  Now, I’m no doctor, but isn’t it somewhat sad, almost twisted that BLOOP! This protein has penetrated Rosie’s brain and Joe’s heart?  As one of my sister’s said the other night, “We said goodbye to Mom long ago, but now dad’s sick? It’s too much.”

So, yea we gotta a bunch of elastic heart’s over here.

Thing is– Just. Not. Dad’s.

At some point or another each one of us kids has told our father about his heart.

Dad, stop getting so upset over stupid stuff or you’re going to have a heart attack. If that happens, we are REALLY screwed.

Oh, how the universe heard us.

I’m fucking useless.  Useless, I tell you. You’ve got two invalids in this house, Jodi. Two goddamn invalids.  

To which I politely respond, Dad, will you please stop saying that? All this negative self-talk. Jesus, if anyone wonders where I get it from.

This gloom and grief is bullshit. This watching our father catch his breath as if he’s just rounded the 18th hole is well, fucking maddening. Rosie with her decaying mind and Joe in a body that won’t cooperate; some days the heart is tugged too tightly.

But that grief, she better not come for me.

While doing the doing, I was sorting through mail and bills the other day and found two cards addressed to me.

sympathy card

At first, I read the words, without really reading. I just didn’t have time to be sad. To be missing my work family. To be grateful for thoughtful colleagues and friends.

But then, damnit. She came for me. That bitch, grief.

I sat there in the kitchen crying silently. My head down, cursing myself for being sad. For being lonely. For feeling inadequate. Like I can’t do enough. Like I can’t be enough. For them.

Fuck, what am I doing?

Then, I look up as Mom is rounding the bend into the kitchen.

She stops. And in the crispest Rosie voice she hands me my heart back.

I just want to say I’m glad you’re here because you’re one of my most favorite friends.

I smile.

 

I’ve got thick skin and an elastic heart

I’m like a rubber band until you pull too hard

 

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