Books, books and more BOOKS!

Somedays, I think it would be wonderful to get paid to read. Then I realize that no one in their right mind would pay me to read books that have already been published. Oh, well, I guess I am forced to read them in my off time.

Now for my assessment of the following series: The Hunger Games and Divergent. If you have not read either of them and/or are just planning on watching them as they come out in the movies, I'd stop reading now because I am going to spoil the shit out of them.

I am on the second book of the Divergent series. I was hesitant to read it because I am such a huge Hunger Games fan and was worried that maybe it would turn me off to that franchise. It didn't turn me off, per se, but I have spent some time comparing the two internally.

While I will always have a special place in my heart for The Hunger Games (as it was the first dystopian series that I ever picked up) I think that Divergent has weaseled it's way into first place. While they are both written for the Young Adult audience (which, let's face it, I'm not a young adult anymore) The Hunger Games and Divergent are well executed. The difference is that The Hunger Games I would be comfortable with sharing with my gifted six year old now and Divergent would need to wait a few years. Divergent is more likely to hit you where it hurts while the Hunger Games, in a way, sugar coats the effects of war. Yes, it destroyed District 12. Yes, Gale was flogged in the middle of the town square. But not until the very last book (and stop reading NOW to avoid previously mentioned spoilers) does it do any major damage by killing Katniss's sister, Prim. Don't get me wrong, the Hunger Games themselves are brutal but even they scoot around Katniss ever having to do any major killing herself.

Divergent, on the other hand, is brutal from the get go. The Dauntless initiation alone is full of inter-faction maiming, as Edward is stabbed in the eye with a butter knife by Peter and Tris is attacked by the same guy plus her supposed friend, Al. Not only were they intending on killing her (as I'm sure Peter has no conscience and would do just that) they groped her in the process. The fear simulations are terrifying and this is before the war between the factions even starts. Even though they give Tris the ability to overcome the affects of the fear simulation (meaning she can manipulate it to get out of whatever situation arises) the affect is still clear when she has to kill her family. (Although again, she bypasses that by shooting herself.) When the simulation to control the Dauntless begins (which has no power over the Divergent, Tris and Four/Tobias) the emotional toll on the reader quadruples. Tris is powerless to stop the simulation, forced to kill her friend, and eventually watch her mother and father's murders. The only time it gets a little "sugar-coated" (and let's face it, everyone would have been pissed if this hadn't happened) is when she encounters Four under the affects of an injection which held a stronger, Divergent friendly, simulation. She refuses to kill him, he wakes up and they both run off to Amity.

I'm reading the second book now, Insurgent, and it's even more brutal than the first.

Again, sometimes I wish I could give my assessment of these books as a profession. Not that anyone would care, nor listen, but I think I would just love to read all day long. But for now, my children are calling me and I guess I have to go be human for a while.

Why I Like Having My Own Blog

I don't really have a good reason.

You ever have one of those moments where you feel like if you don't write down something profound that you are going to miss one of the most important thoughts of your life? I am currently having one and I have no idea what it could possibly be about.

Today was my middle child's second birthday. (I'm working real hard on that middle child complex, if you hadn't noticed.) We didn't do anything special as his birthday party was in May (doubled up with the cousin for a pool party) until this evening. I baked (something I am terrible at) but ended up with some divine Funfetti cupcakes. We popped a couple of candles in, turned out the lights and sang happy birthday. He chose that moment to look at us expectantly, wondering why we hadn't blown out the hot fire in front of his face. Finally, we caved and blew it out for him when he started to whine and cringe away from the flame. Then, after we removed them and turned the lights back on, he decided the cupcake was still warm and blew on it. Little punk.

Then, we continued playing some Nazi Zombies (World at War, delish!) and got the kids corralled in bed. This is where I inappropriately add my romp in the sack with my husband directly after a story about my son's cupcake. Since we had finally decided the two babies could room together last night (meaning we finally, after two years have reclaimed our territory) we whipped out some Oriental Body Slide and went to town.  Now, I know this isn't exactly "blog" material and that I should probably leave this for close friends and maybe my father when he's pissed me off and I want to over-share what his son-in-law does to his daughter... but I have to let you guys know that this stuff is fantastic!

Here's what this miracle from the world of eroticism brings us... well, beyond that uncannily similar smell of Tarantula alcoholic drink mix. First, it comes with a flamboyantly gold tarp that you are supposed to set down before you get to work. Then you mix together the two bottles in four liters of warm water. Now, we are some rebellious folk so we didn't listen to the box when it said not to set up the tarp on our bed. Do not set it up on your bed. As fun as the product is, it is insanely messy and the tarp is not going to stay put when you get excited and start banging like you're having a duet on the bongos. Make sure that the kids are gone (or the dogs are put away) and set that shit up in your living room. You can always rent a steam cleaner. Anyways, strip down and begin pouring this weird (VERY weird) mixture on your partner and yourself. Then it's like you have Astroglide over your entire body. It's warm. It's wet. It's AWESOME. And the best part is that although your entire body is slippery, your, ahem, nether regions are perfectly capable of manufacturing friction. I honestly think we would have kept going had the tarp not continued to move beneath us and threaten our very new and very expensive king sized mattress. (This is why normal people read the directions.)

Anyways, that is your friendly neighborhood Rach's assessment of the erotic massage gel of doom. Enjoy it. And it really is nice to finally reacquire the ol' libido. Man, that thing has been screwing me around (or not, as the case may be) for well over two years today. Now, it's time to get some more gaming in. TGIF! (Don't judge me, I'm stoned... the romp hurt my junk.)

And Just Like That...

I'm having a bad day.

It's very easy to convince myself that something untoward is going on. That people are taking poorly about me behind my back; that my husband is having an affair. It's frustrating and ridiculous. And while I know that it is frustrating and ridiculous, I'd really like if my husband would get on board with all of this too.

1 Thing I Hate About Me

When I was five, my stepbrother molested me. Not only did he grope me as a prepubescent child... he made me touch him. As an adult woman, I still have moments of anxiety when being with my husband. Things that should be erotic and pleasant are sources of emotional distress. Instead I shut down and don't get into sex. It wasn't until last year that a male member of the family came forward with his abuse.

I spoke to my counselor about this. At least three known abused children; two female and one male. And all the asshole got was maybe 4-5 years in prison. I was the luckiest one as I did not get raped. The male was and he was positioning near the female (at 3) when one of her parents came home early. The odds of rehabilitation are VERY slim. Pedophiles of this nature don't discriminate on their prey. And it's very likely he still exhibits the same wants and desires.

And he is married with three children and a fourth on the way. I've been told to forgive and forget but I am just terrified that those children will come forward someday with accusations of abuse. They would never be normal. Sex and intimacy would be completely tainted for all of them. If they grow up to be similar to me (which is very normal with abused children) they will have multiple partners because they are certain they deserve nothing more.

I will add more later.

Toddlers, Anatomy, Jobs and Chaos!

Last night, my toddler stabbed my daughter in the eye with a steak knife. I got a hysterical text message at 6:30 p.m. (in the middle of class) about it. I, of course, packed up my shit and left to go home and check on her. The doctor says she is fine but the eye has been bugging her tremendously. 

My toddler is constantly doing uber-destructive shit like this to his little sister. He's poked her in the eye before but with a much less sharp instrument: a screwdriver. What do I do?! I know he's a jealous, curious, adventurous (and many other -ous's) toddler but he's either going to a) kill his sister or b) blind her. These things happen in the blink of an eye... er, no pun intended. It's not as if they are running around unsupervised. We have this house on lock down most of the time. We are the baby-proofingest parents ever! But sometimes, a knife gets left out and slides under the couch (thanks, honey.) Or sometimes, I have to rush to get ready for school and walk away for five minutes. 

Why You Should Read Whatever The Hell You Want...

I've been mulling over this article since last night. I was unsure if I should or would respond, or if it would even matter. I've decided that it matters enough to me (and 3K comments) to sit down with the article and explain why it's unbelievably elitist, snobby and blanketed.

First, Ruth Graham, you should be embarrassed (as both a human being and especially as a "former librarian") to make a blanket statement like you did and think it's acceptable. Then you even had the balls to call it "unconventional." Bless your cold dead heart.

Maybe the past ten-twenty years or so have showed a surge in adult sales for Young Adult novels. I'm not going to pretend like I don't remember the screaming "Twilight Moms." I think that to make your point you chose the worst book imaginable as your catalyst. "A Fault In Our Stars" is not just a young adult novel and you managed to isolate a very large group of very passionate adults by this choice. I have to wonder, Ruth, with your clearly superior reading material, did you manage to find an article discussing childhood cancer survivor statistics? I'm going to go with probably not or you would have recognized your mistake immediately. (Oh and yes, it makes you heartless... not a grown up.)

Let's say for the sake of argument (since the statistics I am looking for are unlikely to exist) that 75% of the Young Adult readers are normal, Joe Schmoe, work from 9-5 adults. You are discounting an entire 25% of readers: moms of children with cancer, adult childhood cancer survivors, adult cancer patients, oncologists, Hematology/Oncology nurses, etc. etc. It is obvious that I am being extremely conservative with my percentages here because I have no doubt that the numbers that I'm using are way smaller than the actual human beings I'm describing. (Speaking of, I am a mother of a childhood cancer survivor. Tomorrow, June 15th, he will make his four year anniversary of the life saving cord blood transplant. He is only six.)

Now let's go on ahead and just discount that entire 25%, because I'm feeling particularly ballsy myself. As a librarian, how can you with a straight face say that anyone, no matter their age or background, should not read whatever they want? Low literacy costs the country millions of dollars each year in healthcare. Low literacy nearly ensures that those suffering from it end up on welfare. A whopping 75% of people who receive food stamps, perform at the lowest two levels of literacy. Don't believe me? Read it here. (Note: I have absolutely nothing against welfare or food stamps, as I have benefited from both as a single mother of a child with cancer.) In 2013, someone wrote an article about how the illiteracy rate in the United States had not budged in 10 years. Maybe it's because snooty two-shoes such as yourselves have declared that there is acceptable and not acceptable reading material.

As an avid reader (ranging from J.R.R. Tolkein to Douglas Adams to Jane Austen and so many others that I can't even begin to name them all) I can't imagine ever telling a fellow reader that they should be ashamed of what they are reading. Are they enjoying it? Are they expanding their mind with each word? Have they just finished reading "War and Peace" and now want to slowly escape into something on a shorter level? Does it matter? Short answer: No. It does not. Maybe you feel that it does in your very tiny little bubble of judgment but it really, truly does not. Adults that read are more likely to pass on their love of reading to their children. I know that my son at six years old is already getting deeply entrenched in the reader's paradise. How could you begrudge anyone that?

Now, to take a stab at your assessment regarding the essay by Jen Doll stating, "At its heart, YA aims to be pleasurable." There are two main reasons why people choose to read: pleasure and education. I have never in my entire life heard of someone say, "I am reading this book because I want to be bored stiff." Do you read to be bored? Doubtful. I imagine that whatever you are reading is educational or interesting to you. Your "eye roll" appraisal of these books doesn't make you witty either. It instead reads of a very bitter, unhappy individual who can't stand the idea of someone getting a happy ending, even a fictional teenager with cancer. (Again, how can you say these things with a straight face? Did you come from under a bridge?) I do not need a happy ending to read a book. In fact, I also enjoy the "unconventional" endings of death and dismemberment. That doesn't mean that I can't look at other works of fiction objectively and enjoy their pleasurable and easy to read nature.

 "The Fault in Our Stars" took me back to a time when my two year old was a very sick little boy. I imagined what it would be like if he had been older when he suffered from it. It made me sit down and assess my emotions and fears and so much more. Maybe it is "nothing" or "makes you roll your eyes" but to me it is so much  more. This book told me that despite the hell that my son went through and very likely will go through again, that he could potentially have a happy ending. When this article and thousands more like it, say that that is extremely unlikely. So, don't you dare begrudge me a happy ending, Ruth Graham, when neither of us even got a happy beginning. If you ever get the chance to read this, I genuinely hope it gives you some perspective, as you desperately need it.

Unicorns and Rainbow Farts...

Or something like that. 

I figured that today I would make the effort to write something positive. Not because I'm in a particularly positive mood but I'm not in a bad one either and that is an accomplishment when you have BPD.

Last night, a pretty big thunderstorm came in. All three of the babies ended up in our bed. Thankfully, two weeks ago, we upgraded to a king-sized bed. It was weird being able to move around, get comfortable and not elbow somebody in the head. Skyler was laying in the crook of my arm, Tobe laid next to her, then Korben was snuggled up next to Zach. By the end of the night, Skyler was back in her crib in our room, Tobe was in the middle of the bed and Korben (who I thought was missing) had ended up at the foot of the bed tangled in the blanket... fast asleep. 

Often times, I get overwhelmed by my responsibilities. I don't feel like I contribute as much financially as I could. Zach says it's okay but I don't feel that it is. I'm in school full-time most times. (Although right now, I'm only taking one class and thank God for that because it's a 2.5 hour lecture immediately followed by a 2.5 hour lab twice a week. Anatomy/Phys... ick.) But then there are these moments where everything perfectly aligns. The babies are being sweet to one another, snuggling and quiet. Zach is in a good mood and wants to hold me and make me feel extra loved. And that internal voice of mine that tries to stir up trouble is finally still. And that is why I fight every single damn day to be better. This family deserves me at my best.

But there was a time, not that long ago actually, where I didn't have any of this. I had Korben and he was a perfect little amazing man who was just beginning to teach me how to be amazing. That little guy went through so much and God help me, he makes me want to not be a complainer. (Sadly that isn't my nature, so it's still a lot of work.) But Zach and I were still dancing the line between friends and lovers. Tobe and Skyler weren't even a twinkle in either of our eyes yet. And it felt so hopeless. Like no one understood me. I try to remember that I am lucky. That I am loved. That there are people out there that are fighting this disorder by themselves and it's awful. And I hope that one of these posts can give them a little tiny ray of hope in an otherwise dismal day. You aren't alone. You may be single but you aren't alone. There is always someone out there that loves and cares for you and understands.

And I am more than willing to be that for anyone who needs it. 

No Child Left Behind or To the Side or Even Kinda Parallel but Slightly to the Back because... Feelings...

Call me crazy but this whole "there is more to the game than being the best" attitude has spiraled completely out of control. Don't get me wrong, I don't feel it's necessary to beat "we have to win!" into our children... but I also don't think we should tell them that winning doesn't matter at all. It does.

I used to play basketball. I wasn't the best. In fact, I had terrible control of the ball. I couldn't dribble like some of the other girls on the team; behind their backs, through their legs, tossing it effortlessly to a teammate in some trick throw. That just didn't come naturally to me. But I wanted to be good. I wanted to earn my spot on that team. I wanted to be someone that they put out on the court in the first line-up. Since I never could seem to master control over the ball when dribbling, I took to becoming amazing at making baskets. And ya know what? I did master it. I was one of the first girls at my age that could make a three-point shot expertly at any place on around the court. Since we were approximately seven and eight years old, no one was taught to guard someone outside of that three-point rim, expecting them to be unable to make that shot. So, for a few years, they would have a play set up specifically for me to be completely open behind that line so I could make baskets. Eventually, all of the teams on our level caught up to our game and so that play was no longer an option but the point of the matter is that I worked hard to be good at something for my team.

Now my son is playing on a T-ball team. It may not be "all about winning" but it also isn't "just a game." It is much more than that. We are supposedly teaching these kids how to work hard together as a team, right? Well, explain to me how I can tell my child to be supportive of their teammates and root them on when some of his teammates aren't even trying? How can I tell my kid that he lost the game even though they played their hardest, when other kids DIDN'T try their hardest? How is it fair to my child to practice and practice and practice and excel in the game and continue to lose because other kid's parents think that it's no big deal? Bottom line. It isn't fair. It's one thing for your kid to be terrible at the game because they are just terrible at the game. If they try their absolute hardest and at the end of the day still suck, that's totally fine with me. But I have every right to be annoyed when my son, rosy cheeked and sweating his ass off in his batting helmet has worked his tail end off to run the bases outside in 100 degree weather and your child knowing better (as this isn't his first rodeo in the game) hits the ball and not runs but WALKS to first base and gets easily tagged out. Then you say, "Oh, it's okay, you tried your hardest." No. Your child did NOT try his hardest. Your child didn't try at all. And dammit all, if that was my kid, he'd be getting his ass chewed for it. 

It is okay to tell your kid that you are disappointed because they didn't try. They have to try. This isn't a world that our parents lived anymore. You don't get through high school and if you're lucky, college, and go out into the world to have your dream job. No, you have to work your ass off. Just my generation right now generally has to work for at least a Bachelor's degree to get anywhere. By the time our kid's are grown up and out in the world, we can probably expect for it to be a Master's level of education to get anywhere. And here we are, sugar-coating the ever living shit out of everything. And you know what really "busts my buffers?" That I am called the hard ass for feeling this way. I'M somehow the bad guy for this. No, the bad guy in this scenario is the parent who fails to prepare their kid for life outside of their little home bubble. College professors and managers aren't going to look at them and say, "Oh, well, you tried your hardest... so here's an A." They are going to say, "If that's your best, than you need to be withdrawn/fired." At the very least, if you want the world to be glittery and unicorn fart-y than you need to keep your kid out of competitive sports. Because right now, yeah, sure, they are six and seven year olds. But later, they will be ten and eleven year olds and the coaches and parents will chew them up and spit them out and your kid will be traumatized because you told them that anything less than their absolute best was enough.

Quit telling your kids that it's okay not to try. Quit telling them that they are allowed to be lazy little bastards when it directly affects the kids whose parents make them work hard. Because basically, what you are telling my kid and everyone else's kid who is actually trying that that work is for NOTHING. It's not for nothing. It's for a trophy or a 4.0 GPA or for valedictorian or for a scholarship or an amazing job. It is NOT nothing. And if you want to be nothing... be nothing on your own time.

/end rant

Why I Want to Be Like Grandma Dorothy

Let me tell you something about this old bird. She doesn't give up. She's beaten the odds of broken-heart syndrome, despite her husband of 63 years passing away in 2009. She's had a broken pelvis, ribs, legs, etc. etc. and she never, ever allows them to stop her from doing what she wants. Now, she's had a 

My Three P's

My family is starting to surpass the periphery of my Prozac and Percocet. 

Another update regarding my grandmother: She had an approximately 24 hour period where her memory was obscured and she became combative. She pulled out her catheter and was hallucinating, all symptoms of the subdural hematoma. The neurologist that they have been talking to (as I have not had time or ability to go up there without my gaggle of children, which I doubt is going to be helpful to her or to them at this point) said that she would not be released on her own cognizance but had to first stay in a skilled nursing center. As it so happens, I am friends with numerous senior care specialists; including but not limited to the LPNs, RNs and even the directors of some nursing facilities and home health care agencies whether directly or by association. Also, everyone that knows me knows how much I appreciate the efforts given to me and they'll go to great lengths to help me personally and even more so for my grandmother when they know her. Despite that, my "family" just refuses to allow me to be a part of the decision making team.

Ever since I was a child, I've been treated as the overly dramatic hysterical girl whose antics didn't deserve any attention. That is partly why I developed Borderline Personality Disorder. Eventually you overcompensate with rages and actual hysterics in a desperate attempt to get someone, ANYONE, to fucking listen to you. At that point, they kind of have to give you some of their attention because you are a danger to yourself, if not to others. Although even at my most dangerous moment of self-harm, my father didn't appear to have pity or sadness; just disappointment. What a way to grow up. Having the feeling that if you were able to overcome your fear of death, your dad might feel a bit of grief... but overall, he'd feel disappointment in the failure of what you had turned out to be. I still feel that, to this day. And for the longest time, I didn't want to use this blog as a reason to bash my family and/or friends from the past but unfortunately, they've all helped shape who I am today: for better and for worse. And I feel that if this blog about BPD and the struggles that I face is going to be of any help to someone else who suffers from this god-awful soul-crushing disorder, then I need to be more open and honest about my past and my present.

Anyways, back to the story. My grandmother is one of the only people I know that could honestly be considered for sainthood. All of us have the ability to be kind and generous, but she is truly a kind and generous soul. That is what she does. She gives to those that she loves because it makes HER feel better. She has taken care of all of us when we were ill or sad or hurting in some way and she knows exactly what to say. When my grandfather passed away in 2009, I wished upon wish that I could protect her heart from the pain of losing him. Everyone else seemed to be more worried about protecting their inheritance. At times, I almost wish that grandma had been the first to pass because grandpa, while also a caring soul, was much more paranoid to the idiocy of others and would never have put up with the shit that his two children are pulling. He would have put grandma in the fucking Plaza Hotel if it meant that she would be comfortable and would be better. Hell, he'd bring her home and have a squad of nurses and physical therapists living in their extra bedrooms to make sure she'd have the comfort and help that she needed. Unfortunately, he is NOT here and all that is left are her two sons that are so caught up in what money will be left when she goes that they are fighting me tooth and nail on putting her anywhere that is worthwhile.

Yesterday, I spent the majority of my afternoon and evening looking up information and getting numbers to people that could help find a skilled nursing center and/or a nursing home that could send out people to do the skilled nursing section. The latter would be covered by her insurance. I called my father, feeling excited at the work that I had put into it and he was not receptive to the information. So I made sure to give him the number so he could speak to this man directly. This man that I am talking about has been an advocate and supervisor in senior care for 20+ years. You'd think that with that information, my dad could come up with a great plan of care for grandma. After hanging up with my dad, I spent some time catching up on reading my Anatomy/Physiology book. A few hours later, I checked back with the man on Facebook and discovered that my dad hadn't even bothered to call. I can imagine it has to do with what he had said to me before we hung up which is that he was "too sleep deprived to care right now." It made my blood boil.

That is his mother. That woman stayed up and rocked him to sleep as an infant. She was and is a good, kind person and somehow the two "men" she raised are self-important assholes that couldn't give a rat's ass about her well-being. I don't understand this at all. I don't want to understand this at all. When my grandfather passed away, he told my grandma to give his son's his old fishing equipment. When they were looking at it, my uncle said to my dad, "What's mine is mine and what's yours is negotiable." I don't know about the rest of the free world but if my brother were to say that to me (and we've discussed this in length) I'd punch him in the face. I'd slap him around and ask him what the hell had happened to him in order for him to say such nonsense. He says that he would then thank me for my quick response and apologize for being a total asshat. My dad's response? He let my uncle have all of grandpa's fishing stuff. I'M SORRY, WHAT?! That should show you the level of cowardice that exists in my own father. He refuses confrontation, despite it's necessity at times. And as far as I know, that's why we exist in this plane of idiocy at it's current juncture. He refuses to argue with my uncle about his stupid decisions and considering that the man has had exactly zero interaction with the world or any life experience whatsoever, that is a dangerous decision to make. He only knows grandma exists for money. That is what he does. And poor grandma, wants to believe that people are all good inside and doesn't see that what he does is NOT for her best interests. I've told her this myself before. And my statement was accepted as nothing more than me being a "drama queen." Thankfully, my brother was there to set the record straight. I care more about that woman than any of them do. She has been there for me through everything and I want nothing more than her existence on this planet. Everything else is just a bonus. 

So what do I do? I have no control over this situation. My dad refuses to argue for her well-being and will therefore let my uncle make all of the crackpot decisions that he will to protect his inheritance. God knows, I just want my brother here again. We can't do anything but at least we can comfort each other during all of this. At least, my brother believes and cares about what I have to say.

More to come later... I'm sure... 

And it Begins... Again.

Today marks the start of my first day in the summer class, Anatomy/Physiology. 

Today is also the first returning T-ball game for Korben after his short summer trip to grandma's. 

Today is also Monday. Mondays are lame. 

This morning, I got one of my pills stuck in my throat. I tried to drink it down with iced tea and water. Didn't work. Tried a bowl of cereal. Didn't help. I made some coffee to see if that would dissolve the tablet and before I could get it made it seemed to dissipate. In the meantime, that was a God awful experience. I felt like I was having a heart attack. Granted, I've never had a heart attack so I'm unsure if that's exactly what it would feel like but it was bad enough to warrant that initial panicky thought. 

Secondly, I am having to remind myself that the

Insomnia is So Much Better When the Reason is Worry

I can't sleep. Not because I don't want to... I really, really do. Hell, my six year old is coming back from my mother's house tomorrow after an entire week gone and I want to be functional for him. And the day after that, I start one of my biggest classes. Anatomy/Physiology. You'd think that's enough stress and excitement for one evening but it's not. 

Thursday evening, my grandma took a tumble. While she's a mostly spry elderly lady in her 80's, falls still do the same damage that they would to anyone who has reached the years where your body degenerates due to nothing more than age. My father monitored her over night, something that I have to admit baffles me considering his recent history of being unreliable and completely self-absorbed, but hey, why crap on a good thing? He says that the stay was uneventful and despite being tired, she seemed fine. 

Today, on the way to my son's birthday party (oh, yes, did I mention today was my son's second birthday party?). His birthday isn't until June 27th but we did a double party with the husband's sister. In-laws, toddler and infant, pool. It was quite the event. Needless to say, it was already a stressful evening for all of us (sister-in-law and her husband included.) We have a lot of drama queens in our family on both sides. The drama queens that will cold shoulder you for no reason and the side that will ignore any and every stressful experience by sticking their heads in the sand until it either goes away or it is so big that it literally can't be ignored. 

But back to my story: We're driving down Czech Hall road and I've finally pumped myself up for the day when I notice that I've missed a few calls from my stepmother, Mary. I call back immediately, as it is rare that my stepmother calls me ever, and she quickly hands the phone over to my dad who tells me that they've taken grandma to Baptist Hospital to have her checked out because she has fallen an additional three times and isn't doing well.

Here's where it gets tricky. You see, her eldest son, Jim, lives with her. In fact, this person has never lived anywhere but with his mother. I take that back, he MIGHT have lived in a dormitory during college... when he got a degree that he currently has no use for. Anyways, he has been coddled his entire life because he was a premie and is mostly blind in one eye and somewhat blind in the other. He sits at his mother's house in his freakin' 60's without a wife or children or boyfriend or anything and plays on his computer all day. He's also incredibly self-important and suffers from "pseudo-intelligence." This is the phrase we use for people who think they are very smart but lack any and all common sense or ...well, smarts... at all. Perhaps it's cruel for me to speak that way about another adult. Maybe it's libel. But here's the thing, I'm pretty sure in order for it to be libel it would have to be untrue and none of it is. To put the last straw down, during this illness with my grandmother, he was so fucking useless that he couldn't even take care of her for a few days so that she wasn't put in a position as weak as she was to fall in the first place. He didn't try to bring her something to eat or drink. He didn't help her to the restroom or to get comfortable or ask if she needed anything. No, he kept expecting the world to revolve around him and I will honestly and completely be surprised if her fall had nothing to do with getting up to do something for her dear precious son. What is so infuriating about this, beyond the above in general, is that when/if grandma does recover (she has a subdural hematoma a.k.a. brain bleed and two broken ribs, so who knows what the chances of recovery are) he will go back into his little bubble of idiocy and completely ruin any chance grandma has to be normal again. If he cared in the tiniest measurable way, he would use his damn smarts to recognize that he is in so far over his head that he needs help. Either professional or familial. Either way, he can't be trusted to take care of her and an emotionally healthy human being can recognize their limits, despite not necessarily liking them.

So, yes. My grandmother is in the hospital. I'm terrified that any minute now, I'm going to get a phone call that she's slipped into a coma or has passed away. I don't know what the chances are because my dad isn't the most talented communicator I know and so all I hear are "subdural hematoma" and "broken ribs." Before that, I heard "CT scan." I just need some kind of peace of mind because honestly, as selfish as the following will sound: I am not ready to bury my grandmother.

She was and is the world to me and my children. I'm not ready to explain to my six year old that he can't go visit his grandmother anymore because she isn't here. I'm not ready to wipe the tears from his eyes while my heart is grieving myself. I will do it, because if nothing else I am a damn good mother, but I am just not ready. I guess that is a really stupid thing to mention though because I'm 99% sure that you can't really prepare for death anyways. 

But for now, I'm going to curl in bed next to my husband with a book and hope that either a) one of the pills I took will kick in or b) the book will lull me into a relaxation mode that knocks me out.

If anyone out there is reading this, please send a thought out to Grandma Dorothy. I know you don't know who she is but she is almost my entire world. Light a candle, say a prayer, send out cosmic wishes, whatever you do. Just think of her tonight or whenever you read this. She deserves all of them and I will be better for having known her.