Is This Day Over Yet?


This is a place to write your inner most feelings, right? A place to come to when you can not say the words to your children, in fear of breaking down, and having your kids see you in a weak moment. To come here means I do not have to be criticized by others for not doing this or doing that. I do not have to be felt to feel small or stupid. Lord, I love this blogging site!

I have a huge headache today. Oh, it is stress, I have no doubt. I work up in a fairly good mood, considering my brother was being the obedient child, waking up earlier than usual because he can’t sleep well on Wednesday nights, because I am going to be entering his bedroom on Thursday mornings to change his sheets.

This is the only time I enter his walls of privacy, his comfort zone, his free to be whom ever he wishes, is to change sheets. Other than that, I only enter when laying clean, folded clothes on his bed, and then I make a quick escape in order not to cause tears or faster tremors. Yes, tremors from Parkinson’s tends to be worse when the patient is nervous or stressed out or even tired.

I am sitting here cracking up with laughter inside, as it is this choice or screaming and tears. He has been in a bad mood all morning. I almost wish for those good days to never come, then I will never know what the other life would be like.

He woke up and stumbled to the kitchen, refusing to hang on to walls, or chairs, because then he would have to admit, he needs more help than a cane. I can tell by his face that he is in the Parkinson mode. I know for a fact, he was  up until at least three thirty in the morning, watching television, and he could have slept in, since he was tired, but it was sheet changing day! This is his choice, not mine, but it would not matter what day of the week, because I have no guarantees which days will be good or not, and if I mention the fact that we can wait until a better day to change them, he explodes, and wants to know what he had done wrong.

Sometimes I just want to curse and hit our father, for planting this terrible habit of doing all wrong. I praise Al to the ceiling, but he never believes me. He has been taught for over forty years, that he can do nothing right.

After sheets were changed and breakfast all cleaned up, I needed to pay attention to some bills I had coming due, and I wanted to check into a different company for our television needs. I had also made the mistake of telling Al that we would be running to the gas station soon so I could get my smokes. While I am on the phone and not quite ready enough to leave, he has gotten his shoes on, and told me while I was on the phone that he was going to go outside and sit on the porch to wait, I nodded yes, that I understood.

The box fan was sitting near the front door running and Al could not pick the fan up and move it, and he could not walk around it. It was stressful to him that something was in his way, and so he did the shuffle from his Parkinson’s and nearly fell through the door. I am watching this and still trying to pay attention to the words of the sales rep, and was about to get up and go move the fan, when all of a sudden, Al burst out with a big F You word. I swear the whole neighborhood plus the rep on the phone could hear. He was talking to his legs, that were frozen.

He gave up the fan and the move to outdoors, and sat on the couch and cussed. I am sure the lady on the phone heard all, or enough, because our conversation was completed quickly.

I decided at that moment to put all bills on hold, and take Al to the gas station to deter his mind from the fan, and offered to get him some lunch at a restaurant close by and bring it home. He walked out side and didn’t hang on to the rail, because once again, if he gets the extra help, then he has to admit he needs it. He walks down the four steps, and trips on the last one, and I catch him! I explain this is why we need to use both arms to hang on to anything solid, one hand on the cane, the other on whatever is there.

He starts crying and yelling again. He is telling me it is his fault he has this stupid disease. I am deciding whether to continue to the gas station or not, and then I thought, oh ya, I need my smokes more than ever. Not even going to think about quitting my habit for today.

I get him in the car and he is wailing and having the biggest pity party ever. I hate the pity party. I have explained like a broken record, that he needs to be thankful for whatever he can do today, but he never hears me. He is living in the moment, right now, what is happening with his legs now, his tremors, the day, the minute. There is no tomorrow, ever.

We get to the gas station and I run in and get my smokes while Al is sitting in the car gritting his teeth at me, because I refuse to play the pity partner game with him.  I decide the hell with the restaurant, and I grab something from the deli here and I get back in the car. We left and I drove home. When we get home, he refuses to get out of the car. I can not leave him sit there, so I have to stand in the rain, and coax him like a baby to get him out of the car. Finally, he gets out, and I unlock the house, lock the car, and here I sit, writing my frustrations out to someone who will listen, not judge or condemn me and smoking.

telephone