young widowhood

Knocked Up


No, not me. The movie. I didn’t see it when it was out in the theaters. Honestly it takes a hell of a lot to convince either Rob or I to actually expend the effort and waste the time to sit in a movie theater. Perhaps if he liked people more and I enjoyed sitting still for someone else’s story-telling. The only time I can sit still is when I am writing or reading. Otherwise, my mind is too full to entertain someone else’s ideas.

But BabyDaughter and I have been making fairly regular stops at the library in town since I discovered (after nearly a year) that I can use the county library card I have there too, and I saw the dvd and I thought it was worth a movie night.

Yes, I can watch movies at home without too much wandering of attention but it’s not a given. Plus I have the added incentive of my viewing pleasure being enhanced by the ability to curl up next to my husband in bed while we watch. You can’t snuggle horizontally in a movie theater, I don’t care how great the seats are – stadium seating and snuggling just don’t mix.

Knocked Up, if I remember correctly, got quite the rap for being another one of those films that glamorized the idea of pregnancy and keeping the baby as opposed to having an abortion, I guess. Personally, I don’t see either option as glamorous in the least, but I understand the vexation. The movie does make it seem that pregnancy can create a relationship where none existed or ultimately strengthen ties between two people. Frankly, a baby should never be saddled with that kind of baggage or responsibility. More people should disregard the notion of getting together or staying together for the sake of children, born or in the making. The movie was more than a bit fairy tale in that respect.

For me the movie brought back memories of being pregnant with BabyDaughter, mostly because it was mid- way through the pregnancy that her dad began to show signs of mental instability. Just one in a long list of early warning signs of his illness that we missed. I don’t have many fond memories of pregnancy, birth or the first year. It was overshadowed by odd and/or scary behavior that had me on the verge of walking out by the time the doctors agreed that “yes, there does appear to be something physically wrong with your husband”.

Some of the movie annoyed me too. There is a scene – several really – of the female character being “hormonal” and I complained to Rob that I hated movies that went all stereo-type like that about pregnant women. Hormonal does not mean “out of control bitch” and I insisted that I was never like that. But there were tense and even ugly moments when my late husband would do things that seemed so far out of character that I wondered who the hell I had married and perhaps I’d made a huge mistake. I don’t think my reactions were overly influenced by hormones though. I think most sane women would have been upset regardless.

Hindsight is a miserable and useless thing.

Perhaps another reason why I dislike movies (and television even moreso) is that it strives to entertain me with things that are not entertainment. Trauma. Disease. Death. Heartbreak. 

Considering the fullness of my life and my ability to keep myself quite occupied within its framework, I guess it is no wonder I am not much in need of what Hollywood seems to feel I need to vicariously experience more of.

The Story of Who I am is Song Lyric Thursday


One of my favorite songs from the soundtrack of my journey is one I discovered as a free download from iTunes during the time that Rob and I were in the long distance part of our relationship.

I didn’t have any way to use my iPod in the car at that point, so I burned a disc and listened to it quite a bit. During the week that Rob was visiting towards the end of the school year and helping me get the house ready for sale and packing for the move, he was driving me back and forth to work in my car. One day he admitted that the cd I was listening to kind of choked him up and it turned out to be this song he had heard.

It’s a really good song. But I am a lyrics girl.

 

 

All of these lines across my face
Tell you the story of who I am
So many stories of where I’ve been
And how I got to where I am
But these stories don’t mean anything
When you’ve got no one to tell them to
It’s true…I was made for you
I climbed across the mountain tops
Swam all across the ocean blue
I crossed all the lines and I broke all the rules
But baby I broke them all for you
Because even when I was flat broke
You made me feel like a million bucks
You do
I was made for you
You see the smile that’s on my mouth
It’s hiding the words that don’t come out
And all of my friends who think that I’m blessed
They don’t know my head is a mess
No, they don’t know who I really am
And they don’t know what 
I’ve been through like you do
And I was made for you…
All of these lines across my face
Tell you the story of who I am
So many stories of where I’ve been
And how I got to where I am
But these stories don’t mean anything
When you’ve got no one to tell them to
It’s true…I was made for you

Getting into the Spirit of Dying


I spent a bit of the morning Friday placating DNOS and our mother. It seems that the first official visit from the hospice nurse was not a rousing success. Mainly because Dad refuses to die peacefully and without being irritating.

Oh, did that sound cold? Here’s something colder yet then, as I listened to first my sister and then my mom describe the nurse’s visit and the ensuing argument it caused between my folks, so much so that when the nurse left DNOS lectured them on decorum, I realized for the first time really just how incredibly annoying and oblivious to the world I had been myself back in the care-giving and early widowhood days.

At one point as I reassured Mom for the tenth time in as many minutes that she was indeed relevant and important, I wondered if I had sounded that shrill and peevish and if people were rolling their eyes at me as I poured out my frustration over the phone to them.

Well okay, not eye rolling, but certainly more than one person had to have wondered if I would ever be a sane member of society again.

From this distance I can see all sides to the slow disintegration that is taking place. Mom is feeling overlooked as caregivers often do. She has needs as real as Dad’s and she thinks no one cares. Dad is feeling pushed to the grave, which is absolutely not what is happening, but I can see where his resistance is coming from. A couple of weeks ago he was dying someday and now he is dying sometime really soon. It is an adjustment and he feels the loss of autonomy more keenly than he has since he was banned from driving last spring. This is his passing and he is going to give the orders. He isn’t thinking about Mom too much right now and she is hurt by this. DNOS then is in the uncomfortable position of mediating their struggles.

My parents have never been stellar communicators. Fifty-two years has brought them great insight into each other but no great wisdom as to what to do with the information beyond tormenting each other. My sister would rather be peeled like a grape than involve herself in confrontation. Her modus operandi is too simply tell the parental units what they will be doing.

“And you are going to back me up,” she ordered as we spoke, “don’t you tell either one of them anything different.”

Four times I assured her that I was in total agreement. I don’t think she  heard me anymore than Mom did when I spoke with her later.

God, I must have been just the most awful person to run into back in the day old days. If I was even a tenth as deaf or petulant, I can imagine that my number was constantly being screened on phones everywhere.

And I know this is all just a phase. Eventually a person comes back.

Dad is probably the most even keeled of the three. He is driving DNOS crazy with his impromptu dictations of funeral arrangements. So far he has had her write out a list of personal items to be given to certain people, informed her that he would not have individuals eulogizing him at his service nor did he want any sort of digital picture display. DNOS has had to take down the pallbearer list, not the funeral home that Dad prefers above all others and be told that picking out the casket was her job.

Last evening she got to take the two of them to the wake of my Uncle Erv’s wife who passed away last weekend. I don’t like my uncle at all. He was a sharp tongued guy with no inner censor who looked me up and down when I was about fourteen and told me,

“I can’t believe how fat you are.”

Still, I felt badly for him when Mom mentioned how incredibly lost he was when she and my Dear Auntie visited him the day after his wife died. She had taken care of all the details in their life. He couldn’t even find their checkbook. They were married for sixty some years.

When I mentioned that I was surprised that she was driving them to the wake, I got,

“Well who else is going to do it?” rather peevishly.

I had actually suggested to Mom that they skip the wake and just go on Saturday with Dear Auntie, but wakes are huge social events. There was no way that either of my parents would miss an opportunity to mingle.

The only good news that came out of the phone at me today was that Dad was stable. The fluid is building but slowly, so there is no need for me to fly down right now. I can’t say that this disappoints me at all, but DNOS is clearly desperate for me to come, judging from her tone, though Mom knows perfectly well that my arrival is not going to let her off the hook as far as caregiving. I won’t do that again for her.*

Rage against the dying of the light, isn’t it? We have that done, I think.

*About six weeks after Will died, Dad had some surgery. He had a growth in his rectum and they thought it might be cancer – it wasn’t – but I was required to come as it was my spring break. Never-mind that I had a thesis due on the 1st of May and comps to write. There were complications and Dad ended up in ICU (ironically right next door to his brother’s dying wife – fun times) and I was the one doing hospital duty while Mom worked and DNOS went about her life. It was unfair of them to stick that on me. It will not happen again.