Dad.

It’s my fourth Father’s Day since Dad passed away in January 2010. People say it gets easier and it really does, but it leaves a dad-sized hole in your life that never goes away. The edges of the hole heal up a bit so that it doesn’t ache all the time, but the hole’s still there. I reckon it always will be.

My dad loved me and was proud of me, although he wasn’t the kind to say it out loud too often. His wasn’t a generation that lent itself to a great deal of touchy-feely mumbo jumbo.  But he loved his kids, and truly, would have done anything for us.  He wasn’t one for long phone calls, either, but when life was going badly, he was who I called.  He just knew how to make me feel like it was going to be OK. 

Oh, but he was a worrier!  He worried so much about the darnedest things.    If I was out sick from work, he worried that I might get fired. (Dad was of the opinion that not many things were an excuse for missing work)  I used to joke that if he got a call informing him I’d been in a car accident, his first question would be to ask if I was OK, but his second question would be “did she go to work?”  He also was deeply concerned and disappointed that I was not, and vowed never to be, a Southern Baptist or a Republican.  His steadfast convictions in matters of religion and politics were such that we couldn’t even have a conversation about either. It wasn’t that he got angry. It was more like he was just …. SAD that I was so misguided. 

My earliest memory of my dad is of the two of us playing “Three Little Pigs”.  Yes, you read that correctly. We didn’t read it, we played it.  I was all 3 pigs, and he was the Big Bad Wolf.  We acted out the book, over and over, he huffed and puffed and blew the house down and I guess I just did pig stuff. 

Dad was not the disciplinarian type. Basically, he had three trigger items as it related to us kids:  Don’t get between him and the TV; for God’s sake, don’t leave a room and leave the light on, and do not, under any circumstances, make any noise after he has gone to bed.   But all he ever did was yell a little bit.   The only time I ever remember getting a spanking by him, (these were the days when “spankings” usually meant belts, or switches!) he picked up a cloth belt.  I started laughing. He tried his hardest to be stern as he flapped that wimpy belt against my leg.  I laughed again.  He made a serious frowny-face and told me it wasn’t one bit funny, or at least I think that’s what he was saying because he burst out laughing before he could get it all out.  So then he put his hand over my mouth and said “if your mother hears us laughing we’re BOTH in trouble – at least pretend to cry!”

My dad was a good guy.  I could write for days about all of the good qualities he had. But some of the funniest things I remember about dad are when he was being, well, a grumpy old fart. He wouldn’t have really appreciated the fact that I find those memories funny, but the fact is when Dad was being a jerk, it was like a tiny little puppy trying to growl and act like a bad ass – all for show, and more amusing than anything else.

Dad would get so blustery sometimes and it usually left everyone perplexed and amused. One Christmas, we had a very large family gathering – siblings, spouses, grandkids – more mouths than my mom had silverware for – I think there were 19-20 of us.  So, she had mixed in a few salad forks at some places – we had the dining room table, the kitchen table, and a couple card tables set up.   As we all got our plates fixed and settled in, and after Dad said his tradition mumbled Grace, he sat down, stared at his fork (he’d drawn one of the salad forks) and said, “I believe I just won’t eat if I have to eat with a little fork”. And then, he stood up and calmly walked away to the den, where he sat down huffily to read the paper.   We all sort of just looked at each other a moment before someone started chucking, and someone swapped out their “big” fork for the “little” fork, and someone cajoled him into coming back to the table.

One of my favorite holiday memories was from maybe the mid 1990’s.  Both of my brothers were living in Florida at the time, so they were staying at the parents’ house for the holidays. For some reason my sister was also staying at their house as well. My husband, my son and I joined the family about 11 that morning.  Apparently all 3 siblings had gone out partying the night before, and they were all still asleep when we arrived, much to my dad’s consternation.  (He wasn’t keen on drinking OR sleeping in!)  When everyone finally woke up and came downstairs, well, they looked like people who’d been out drinking until all hours.  I looked around at them all – bleary-eyed, dressed in clothes they’d hastily picked up from the floor, with slept-in hair; and then at my own family – we weren’t dressed up but we’d showered and at least put on clean clothes.  It suddenly struck me as hilarious that I felt wildly overdressed in my jeans and clean shirt, and when dad asked what I was laughing about, I pointed out the disparity.  Without looking up from the newspaper, he said, not amusedly, “how do you think I feel when I look at this motley group and realize this is my legacy to the world?” 

I guess this has gotten way too long for a blog post, so I’ll end this here. But every day, I miss that man. And despite his musings that Christmas morning, I think he left his four kids a legacy that will make us all better people for having him as our dad.   

Operation Anti-Anti-Depressant = FAIL.

I am not a depressed person. Or at least I don't think I am. But in the months after my father died, my world sort of got twisted. My nerves were a frazzled mass of rawness. My doctor suggested Lexapro, and darned if it didn't help. Lots.

So nearly 2 years later, life was calmer. Things were good. One day I asked myself, "Self, why do you still take these things anyway?" I decided to stop. I knew not to stop cold turkey ... I did my research and talked to my doctor, and then followed a slow and deliberate withdrawal schedule. I'd read about these things called Brain Zaps that can occur from anti-depressant withdrawal. You know what? I had them. It was very strange -- it felt something like a slight electrical current in my head. Sometimes, I'd have the sensation that things were moving that weren't really moving. It took nearly a month before I quit having those sensations, but they finally went away. Yay, no more anti-depressants, I thought.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, said Life.

Damned if the whole world didn't go bonkers all at the same time. First, I started noticing that I was just -- moody, I guess. I cried more, over dumb things, and I was snippier than I should be. I felt overwhelmed by work, bills, and other normal responsibilities. Then, I had a little medical adventure that involved a biopsy and in-patient surgery. As I write this, I still don't know the biopsy results. I missed a week of work and spent that week in pain a few days, and just downright uncomfortable for the rest of the week.

Just before the surgery, a family member got really pissed at me about something I won't hash out here, and she didn't pull any punches in letting me know just how pissed she was. Which is certainly her right, but the timing sucked. The very day of my surgery, I had an rather, well, MEAN email from her awaiting me in my mail box. (Thank goodness I had a few nice ones from people hoping my surgery had gone well!) So during a time when I could have really used a little TLC and support -- um, yeah, that wasn't happening. While I think we'll be OK, I have to say, that really HURT. DAMN, way to kick someone when they're down and bleeding! And off of the anti-depressants!!

Then, I decided today to take a look at my mom's bank balance. I manage her finances and have done so since my dad died. It's been very frustrating, because she seems to have no concept of how much she spends and how much she has. Let's just leave it at this: There are some family members who don't hesitate to ask for her help, and she seems to be unable to say no. I've repeatedly told her that she cannot afford to be as generous as she is being and she repeatedly ignores me. So today was the day I knew was coming. The balances in her account are in the double digits. The balance in her "emergency fund", which had a hefty balance when my father died 2 years ago, has about $30.00 left. So, while she has annuity income that will insure that her bills are paid, she has completely depleted her emergency reserves.

To say I lost it would be an understatement. I cried .... WAILED .... for about an hour. That was the first melt down. I proceeded to have about 4 more similar, but thankfully shorter, meltdowns over the course of the day. I am not a crying, sobbing, wailing sort of person.

During one of the calmer moments, my husband looked at me and very nervously asked, "are you sure you need to be off of those anti-depressants?" For some reason, that was the funniest thing I'd heard all day.

Stuff Larry Says Saturday

This Saturday, I can't make fun of my husband. I have to kind of say nice things about him.

We've been married nearly 28 years. It took me 26 years to come to terms with the fact that Larry doesn't do special occasions well. I could write a book about that, or at least a few blog posts. He's completely forgotten some occasions, and on others he's clearly run into an all-night drug store and frantically purchased the first thing he saw. On still other occasions, his gifts have been just ....

Anyway, on Valentine's Day this year, he had the day off. I came home to dinner, all cooked by him: Prime Rib, roasted potatoes and asparagus, chocolate dipped strawberries. He was so very proud of his gift: instead of taking what he called the "lazy route" and ordering flowers, he bought me one single, perfect rose encased in gold, no less. I felt pretty slack -- my gift was a 6 pack of beer. (fancy beer, but still).

Truth be told, I really wasn't in the best of moods that day. I've been stressed out for multiple reasons, the weather was lousy, and I was even annoyed at the high-fat meal that appeared three days into my latest attempt to go on yet another diet. But yet, after all these years, I have a hubby who went to all that trouble for Valentine's day.

So, yeah. I did OK in the husband department. But he still says funny stuff.

Saturdays are supposed to be fun.

I miss the Saturdays of childhood. Sleeping in, only not wanting to because cartoons were on. (Anyone besides me remember when Saturday morning was the only time you could see cartoons?) My dad cooked breakfast every Saturday: two eggs over easy, each egg atop a slice of toast. My family creatively named this dish "Eggs on Toast". True story: My dad never cooked. But my mom convinced us all -- by demonstrating -- that she could not flip an egg without breaking the yolk. We eventually learned that she broke the yolks on purpose so that we'd wake my dad up for breakfast on Saturday instead of her. Then, we usually got sent outside to play all day. No chores, no errands, no nothing.

Today I was at work before 8:00. I have to be out all of next week and I had a few bazillion things to tie up before I'm out. Then, I went with two co-workers to an employee's mother's funeral. It was in an old, small, country church and the pastor was a lively man of about 907. Yes, I meant to type 907. But as always, I remember how much it meant to me when co-workers came to my dad's funeral, and I try to do the same whenever I can.

So finally, I'm home, and flat worn out. But there's laundry and shopping and ...... I think I'll take a nap.

Life After 50 (or, keeping doctors rich, one appointment at a time)

This week should be a fun one. What's up, you ask? Here's what's up:

Monday: MRI on the left knee. This knee has been problematic for a couple of years. I reckon I have arthritis in it. However, about 6 months ago, in my quest to become more fit (and I might as well have launched a quest for unicorns), I fell off of a treadmill. In public. My knee was decimated. My ego was in even worse shape. I had a CT scan at the time, as I was really afraid I'd broken something, but all was well. however, the knee continues to be swollen and painful. Now, I'm not exactly sure what I hope to gain from the MRI. If they tell me I need surgery, I will politely decline. I guess I just want to know what's up, what's helping and what's making it worse. In my secret, darkest place I am kind of hoping that I'm told that all forms of strenuous exercise are explicitly forbidden forevermore.

Tuesday: I'm having a biopsy done. Sometimes I'm fairly certain that I only do this blog for my own amusement, but in the off-chance that someone is reading this, I'll spare you any grueling details. I'll just say that the biopsy is being done by a gynecologist and I'll leave it at that. Ouch, you might be saying. Ouch, I will be saying, I'm sure -- along with several of my more colorful favorite curse words. I may even do some research to learn a few new ones. My doc has prescribed some pills to help relax me ("heck, yeah, I'll dope you up -- this isn't going to be any fun at all!" she said helpfully)so I'm hoping to giggle and slur my way through the whole procedure. I'm dragging the hubby with me with the hopes he can converse intelligently with the doctor.

OK, the rest of the week is pretty mundane, except for the waiting-for-biopsy-results part. Whatcha wanna bet these tests will lead to even more doc appointments? Which is why I vowed, years ago, to never volunteer ANY sort of problems to the doctor. I should have kept that vow!

Stuff Larry Says Saturday

OK, I'm not posting this until Sunday. My husband was remarkably un-funny this week. What's up with that? I did have to laugh at this little vignette from yesterday:

Cue Scene: Larry is in recliner, controlling the remote, watching whatever Pawn Shop/Storage Wars/Swamp People thing he's stumbled upon, and, as always, he falls asleep. I'm paying the bills ... not just mine, but my mother's. Since bill paying is one of my least favorite things, doing it for two households makes me, kind of, insanely bitc .... um, grumpy.

Larry: zzzzzzzzz

Me: OK bills are paid. My mom's bills were crazy this month!

Larry: (snappishly, waking from his nap) You already told me that!

Me: NO I DIDN'T! BUT I'M SORRY I INTERRUPTED YOUR SILLY NAP (i didn't say silly -- for the purposes of this g-rated post please substitute your favorite profanity for the word 'silly') ARE YOU GOING TO DO ANYTHING TODAY OR IS NAPPING ABOUT AS SILLY AMBITIOUS AS IT GETS FOR YOU ON WEEKENDS?

Larry: Why are you yelling?

ME: BECAUSE ALL YOU SILLY DO IS SILLY SLEEP! I'M SO SILLY SICK OF SEEING YOUR EYELIDS EVERY TIME I LOOK AT YOU! I CARRY ON CONVERSATIONS WITH YOU ONLY TO SILLY REALIZE YOU ARE SILLY SLEEPING!!!!

Larry: Well I had a big lunch!

******

Oh. My bad.

"Stuff"-Larry-Says Saturday

I mentioned previously on Facebook that my son and daughter in law have told me several times that I should write a blog called "S*&$ Larry says". Larry is my husband of, let me count, 28 years. As he gets older, he gets funnier. Only he doesn't mean to. Which makes it even funnier.

So I'm going to try to make every Saturday a post about the latest absurd or funny thing Larry did.

Last night, my husband was watching the news. Which almost always means that he's actually napping. The funny thing about my husband's naps, which are legendary, is that he frequently acts offended and/or defensive about them. "I'm awake!" He often snaps, if you suggest that he, perhaps, go to bed to snore.

Anyway, he was napping or watching the news, depending on who you ask. My son called and was telling me about something that had happened at work. We'd been talking awhile. At one point, I asked my son, "what do you think's going to happen?" Larry sat up straight, eyes wide open and said, "I don't know!" very conversationally, as if we'd been talking all along.