My Xmas Letter

We all have one. A friend or family member who writes a xmas letter with generic updates about their grandchildren, their cats, their trips to places we’ll never go and how this year was a happy fun time filled with glitter and oozing with buttery goodness.  But when do we hear from our distant relative with a prison record, an oxygen tank strapped to their ‘lectric wheelchair, and a rusting immobile home parked on a lot littered by old refrigerators and derelict "vee-hicles" on cinderblocks?  

Speaking only for myself here: not often enough.

So, here’s my xmas letter from that relative which I share with the world in the spirit of the season.

So another year has passed here in Hanging Gardens Mobile Estates in sunny Goatfuck Arizona, home of the unicorn chupacabra, the world’s largest freeway-adjacent AM-PM store, and the highest tattoo parlor-to-citizen ratio in the American Southwest.

And what a year it’s been, with Daddy getting out of prison early because of overcrowding and Junior moving back into the old schoolbus in the backyard when he began his court-ordered trial separation from Darla and the twins Oona and Otis. Oona got her first period this year, so our little princess is a grown up woman now in case any of you distant cousins are fixin' to visit next year and looking for a new baby momma. Otis got his finger sewed back on so you’d hardly notice it’s a tiny bit crooked after the duck hunting hatchet accident. 

We had some bad news this year too but what don't kill us makes us stronger. Daddy's momma, Patsy Jo passed away in the home this past summer. The doc says it was from an infection she got during a knife fight with another resident over the TV remote, but Daddy says he thinks she just as likely died of pure cussedness because he couldn't bring her weekly carton of cigarettes when he was in prison and she never forgave him.

We are truly blessed by Our Lord and Savior who arranged for the tornado to pass over our home and flatten them trailer trash at nearby Happy Acres Trailer Haven while leaving us downwind to take our pick of the falling debris. Got us some new TV trays with hardly any rust stains, and a ratchet that Daddy hooked to the wall next to my TV chair so there’s room for my ashtray to sit on top of the oxygen tank hose connection – very convenient.

Since my boys came home, we've all been trying to eat healthier this year and it's really paying off praise Jesus. My leg that was all swole up last year from The Sugar has gone down some and I can now fit into the truck to go to WalMart most months to cash my disability check and buy a few cases of diet cola to go with my low fat cheesey poofs. I mostly skip the Little Debbie aisle when grocery shopping. I'm sticking to them non-fat pudding cups because the empty cups make nice disposable ashtrays. Them global warming wingnuts would be proud of how I'm recycling to save the planet and whatnot.

Our guard dogs Tiny and Poopsie-Pie (y’all remember the cute story about how Poopsie Pie got her name, right?) are doing well. Turned out we didn’t have to put Tiny down after the incident with the UPS man because the guy up and died of rabies and couldn’t testify so there weren't no proof Tiny done it. It was just a friendly nip anyways and that UPS guy was always too stuck up for my taste. Not Tiny’s though, ha ha.

Junior’s P.O. visits regularly and is impressed that Junior is turning his life around. Junior is proud to show the P. O his vegetable garden, except for a few potted plants that he moves inside our trailer when the P.O. comes because the plants don’t like too much sunshine on visiting days. We got us a few tomatoes and some okra but the critters ate all them mustard greens before I could cook them. Turns out that was for the best because Daddy says the propane tank is almost empty and we might want to heat the trailer on Xmas when we have everybody over to watch the all-day Matlock marathon the big screen, and share a couple buckets of Chick-fil-A and some mean greens.

We hope y’all have a happy Xmas and a new year filled with the love and bounty of Baby Jesus, Amen.

Your loving Aunt (Dora Jean)

Slapdown at the OK SNF

“So lay your pistol down, granny

The company men never came to you

But don’t unknit your brow, granny

The mice in the yard ate the potted plants you grew.”

 - Samuel Ervin Beam, Friends They Are Jewels, by Iron & Wine

Since 2/12/2011 The Other Guy’s mother (aka DOB) has occupied a bed in a Skilled Nursing Facility.  I could have said she lives there, but notice that I did not say that. I also will not say she suffers from dementia because it would be more accurate to say that she seems blissfully unaware she is a few laws short of an offshore tax shelter. Notice I did not say she was in denial about her mental capacities that have diminished to microscopic proportions, like say, her grown children are. They somehow manage to find other reasons for why she makes no sense on any given day.

Anyway, the blissful part of DOB’s residence was mostly true, until Saturday night. I was going to say it was a dark and stormy night, but actually by the time it got dark the storm had passed. At least outside the SNF.  Then, at 9:30 my home phone rang. A dainty, heavily-accented female asked for TOG. I’m no fool; I instantly realized it had to be La Vida Loco calling about DOB. Who else calls on dark and stormy nights unless it’s a homicide official from the Sûreté, the automated National Weather Service warning of a tornado, or a nurse at the SNF? And those calls are never to chat about how I’m doing.  So I gave the caller his cell number and refreshed my bourbon and butterscotch. And by refresh, I mean I finished the first glass and poured another.

What follows is the text conversation between me and TOG, which I have edited only to correct his pathetic spelling.

TOG:  Here u got lucky…

WISIMH:  Luck had nothing to do with it.

TOG: … SNF just called me and said mother was in a fight (again)…

WISIMH:  Again? Hello? Backstory?

TOG:  …and m said she started it and slapped somebody. Here’s the funny part --- they didn’t want to talk to me. Just you. Please tell me what happens.

But it gets better. The minute I read this text, and even before smoke started to come out of my ears, my cellphone rings. It’s a blocked number, which means it’s TOG.

Me:  Hi.

TOG:  I just sent you a text by mistake so ignore it. I meant to send it to X (aka, Deadbeat Oldest Sister, to distinguish her from the Deadbeat Youngest Sister).  

DOS calls DOB daily and hence speaks to and knows nursing staff by name and shift because DOB can’t ever figure out how to make the machine next to her bed stop ringing,  DOS first calls the nurse’s station and they go in to DOB's room and DOS calls the bedside phone, and the nurse answers and puts it DOB's  hand with the right end pointing to her ear and mouth.

Me:  Wow. Ok, let me know what happens.

WISIMH: Only wanted to talk to me? Fat chance, you lazy slug. The nurse wanted to speak to a responsible adult who gives a shit so naturally that isn’t you and you handed off the problem to DOS who lives on the other side of the USA where she can do more good than you could. In fairness, at least you didn’t hand the problem to me. Wait! You tried to! You “mistakenly” texted me first because you were expecting me to jump in and say I’m all over it like hair on soap and will call La Vida Loco and solve the problem and report to you while you sit in your apartment and watch Bait Car which is clearly more important than your mother turning into a thug.

TOG:  DOS is on the line now with M and nurses.

Me:  This is what mother said as the fight began. (Acknowledgement to my internet guru for the pic).

TOG:  Tnx sent that to DOS. Some Woman came in and was making too much noise in the closet and mother was pissed off cause this is bothering the lady next-door who is very sick. And when the woman wouldn’t stop making noise mother slapped her. So the nurses called the doctor and the doctor said do blood tests to see if mother’s infection is affecting her mood swings. DOS thought it all quite funny.

WISIMH:  Remember what I mentioned about denial of dementia?  Infections cause mood swings? A doctor said that? I'm sure DOS thought it was hilarious too, because 9:30 here means 12:30 there. So, good times.

Me:  Thank god it wasn’t a hate crime. I worried m slapped her black neighbor. FYI, I suspect dementia more likely to affect mood swings than an infection. Unless she has late stage syphilis.

TOG:  Hey that’s my mother you are talking about. What makes you think she is prejudiced?

Me:  Wait. You’re more insulted I implied that she might be racist than that she has terminal syphilis? That’s fucked up dude.

TOG: I thought you’d like that.

Me:  Actually, yeah. Still can’t wrap my head around mother starting a fight. How did she get there? Musta been in her wheelchair. The person she slapped musta got tangled in her own oxygen bottle tube and couldn’t outrun mother.

TOG:  Always with the details. Who cares…

WISIMH:  Well, you got me there.

TOG: ... Slapstick lives. Put your own captions to the pictures in your head. Maybe she’s been taking Wheelchair-Tai-Kwan-Don’t-You-Do-That lessons each afternoon.

WISIMH:  After all these years can TOG be turning into a happy drunk? He used to a surly drunk. The kind who would slap somebody disturbing a sick roommate by rattling adult diapers in the closet.

Me:     (Putting captions to the pictures in my head and texting back the following)

            DOB:  Bitch, shut up. My neighbor is sick.

            Victim: Wadda ya gonna do you old broad? Stab me with your plastic dinner fork?

            (Approaching slowly and menacingly by moving her wheelchair with her feet)

            DOB:  Imma fuck you up.

            Victim:  Ooooh! I’m so scare-

            SMACK

TOG:  Well, the interloper might have been trying to steal her money.

Me:    Well let me know when you follow up tomorrow if mother finds a razor blade in her cupcake.

WISIMH:  Like that will happen. The follow up, not the razor blade.

Happy 1004th Birthday

Yesterday was Demented Old Biddy’s 95^th birthday.  It’s one of the two times a year I’ll visit her with The Other Guy who is no longer able to visit his mother himself. And by no longer able, I mean no longer trying to keep up the pretense that he’d love to visit her except for whatever his latest health crisis is that prevents him from visiting on any given day.

DOB:  How nice to see you!

TOG:  Of course we’d see you; it’s your birthday. You’re 95 years old today!

DOB:  No!

Me:  Yes!

DOB:  No. I forgot. I didn’t even know it’s my birthday.

Me:  No!

We sit, we chat, we discuss the weather, the food, the new roommate.

DOB:  The woman in the next bed is…. (dramatic pause or silent mini-stroke, you decide)

DOB:  …. (moves lips but no sound comes out) black….(!)

TOG:  She likes you. She told me so.

WISIMH:  You can tell her anything. It’s like politicians who can make solemn pronouncements about “facts” that bear as close a relationship to the truth as DOB’s perceptions bear to reality. I once asked her how she enjoyed her visit to Disneyland yesterday and she assured me a great time was had by all.

Me:  At least she doesn’t throw things at you like your last roommate.

DOB:  She’s (again moving lips without the sound) blaaaack! 

The shrug and facial expression that accompany this pronouncement convey either the full horror of having a --- lady for a roommate, the impending sudden end to a prolonged bout of constipation, the fact that Obamacare website can now enroll at least 80% of people who try,  or the realization that you have forgotten your 95^th birthday. Hard to say.

TOG:  (Giving her a third piece of sugar-free chocolate which is big enough for about three mouthfuls but which, needless to say…) Do you know how old you are today?

DOB:  (Speaking through the sloppy gob of chocolate) I am 1004 years old.

TOG and Me:  No!

DOB:  No. Because the paper with my birthday says 1924 and then. And then, you add (holding up fingers and counting off) one year, then you put in another year, and now you just put in another year, so that adds up to 1004 years old. And that.

Me:  So today, you’re 1004 years old and that?

DOB:  No. Then you put in one year, and the paper says 1000 and then another year…

Me:  No. 

WISIMH: The paper, aka your birth certificate, says 1918. That's the year you were born, not your age minus 14 inexplicable years. Christ only knows where you got 1924. The other four years added to the 1000 I actually get: it's your mental age. She tends to round up.

DOB:  Yeah, no?

WISIMH:  No only means no here when it’s spoken in a very loud voice by the fire marshal, the crane operator, or the man in mismatched pajamas pushing his walker with one hand and swinging a claw hammer with the other hand. Otherwise “no” is an all-purpose word that conveys many things depending on context. Such as the bitterness of a life of regret for opportunities missed; remorse for generations of poor fashion decisions; or perhaps un-assuaged guilt for not properly configuring your privacy settings before posting pictures illustrating your reckless disregard for the feelings of others. “No!” may also mean: how did that man in his pajamas get a claw hammer?

Me:  Can I meet your black roommate?

DOB:  Blackie isn’t nice.

TOG:  She told me she likes you.

DOB:  This is my brother Ken and his sister… (whose name clearly escapes her)

Me:  (Waving)  Hi. Doris.  I’m her daughter-in-law and that’s her disabled son Eugene.

TOG:  No. Mother is 95 years old today.

Me:  No. She’s 1004. (Pinning up family photos by her bed which TOG has carefully labeled with names and relationships so she may be able recognize her own daughter.)

WISIMH:  The roommate is actually a black woman - which is kind of amazing since the previous roommate, who was clearly Asian, was usually (although not always) identified as Mexican.  Which reminds me of the time when DOB was in the hospital and the Asian nurse had somehow offended her - which is slightly more difficult than using air to breath. Mother kept calling her a “Jew” but we think she meant to use the slur Jap and just couldn’t remember it. Did I mention this was right in front of the nurse who politely pretended she didn’t hear?  Someone should do a study on racial slurs and dementia. Apparently one of the last to go is Jew. And apparently before that demented old white woman can only say someone is black if they don’t speak the B word out loud. No.

The Key to Everything

Text conversation:

Me: (Picture of a clock winding key included) Is this to the clock on the living room windows floor shelf? Yours or X's?

The Other Guy:  I think that's the key to the anniversary clock.

WISIMH:  Oh goody! We're playing a version of Answer a Different Question where you beg the question by making more questions arise to grab me around the ankles like standing in a pit of snakes. The best way to reply to my text would have been "Yes" (or no).  "Mine" (or X's).  I infer you aimed your answer in the general direction the first question only, and further, that your answer was no, it's the key to another clock - maybe. Montaigne said what is not know is more important than what is. He would have run screaming from the room at this point.

M: Who has the clock?

TOG: I'm pretty sure X took it… I should've kept it.

WISIMH:  I know EXACTLY how you fee: that gnawing regret. I'm pretty sure I should've made some better choices in my youth, like choosing to live with you until I lost my mind. I should've kept it. So now we're playing a game I like to call Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. I think we're driving the conversation down a pretty straight road and you veer into the bushes without slowing down. We could be heading through tall grass straight toward a cliff. My part in this game is to grab the steering wheel and try to keep us from plunging to our conversational death on the rocks of nonsense below. Best to try not to jerk the wheel too suddenly or you'll could fall out the window. Instead, I'll adopt a strategy to gradually get us from the brink of disaster back to the main road to our conversational destination. You know, about what I should do with the fucking key.

M:  Should I send X the key? I'm sure he'd send the clock back if you asked.

TOG: Yeah well---send the key to him.

M. Ok.

WISIMH:  Let the happy hour begin!

To Bagel or Not to Bagel

So, me and The Other Guy now live separately. The reasons why he moved from our home to a studio apartment in an independent living senior community where he will eventually migrate to assisted living are either seriously complex or sublimely simple depending on what time of day I try to explain. In the bright light of day, he desperately needs a full time caretaker and I’m distressingly not up to it. In the dark hours of the night I’m simply a selfish bitch. We talk, text, use FaceTime to kiss goodnight and do lunch a couple of times a week when I bring him mail or run errands with him. We still love each other and now we don’t drive each other crazy.

Or, as crazy.

Today, I decided to deliver a large ungainly but not terribly heavy box he ordered online but had delivered to me instead of his place. We’d planned to do it tomorrow, but I was nearby walking the dog around the lake and called him from the car to see if I could drop it off today instead of tomorrow when we'd planned to meet for bagels and coffee and then go to the grocery store.

So, I used the Bluetooth function on the car and called him. There was a regular ring, then an odd ring which we later learned meant he tried to answer in FaceTime instead of by voice. Since I can’t/didn’t accept the facetime call on the Bluetooth, I got a strange different ring then a disconnect.

So I called again. It went straight to his voicemail because of course he was trying to call me back via facetime again. I left voicemail, hung up, and the phone promptly rang. Remember, I’m in the car, now about 10 minutes from his place.

Me:  Yellow.

Pause because, well, because it always takes The Other Guy a while to understand, process, react and reply.

TOG:  Do you want to (Keep in mind I’m deaf) base line?

M:  Do I want to what?

Lather, rinse, repeat. Again.

M: Ahhh, facetime!  No. I’m calling from the car. You know. Driving.

TOG:  Where?

M: In the driver’s seat.

TOG:  You’re driving here?

M:  I'm driving past your place. I’m taking Lucy to walk around the (nearby) lake. Then, we can meet at the bagel place for coffee (he can ride his Go-Go down the block). Then I can drive back and drop off the package. Ok?

TOG:  (Bear with me as I paraphrase. It’s difficult to replicate his words and lack of content) Matt will tell you where to drive the car. Drop off the package so maintenance can get it to my room. At some point. Call me back.

WISIMH:  The plan included you coming out with me to sit in the car with the dog while I went to the grocery store. I infer I’m to drop off the box, but have no information regarding when or where, let alone about our other plans. Before the lake?  After the bagels and coffee? The grocery trip?  At what fucking point? And why call when later when we’re actually talking now and could make some sense if we really put our minds to it? Then again, why do I bother?

M:  I’ll call you when I’m done our walk at the lake. About an hour. By the way, the package is not really heavy, just bulky…

WISIMH: … as I might have mentioned several dozen times…

M:  … a hand truck will get it into the elevator and to your room.

(Crickets)

M: Ok, see you later. Bye

After the walk, I call. We say hello.

TOG:  Drive around to the front lobby entrance and Matt will bring a hand truck.

M: Ok, then we’ll go to get bagels and coffee and then groceries?

TOG:  Um, just around by the front entrance. Not where you usually park to pick me up.

WISIMH:  Which is exactly at the front entrance. Although to be fair, I think you mean two parking places closer than that. For somebody who never walks farther than the couch to the bathroom, that’s practically another neighborhood.

M:  Bagels? Groceries? Want to just keep Lucy while I shop and I’ll pick her up later?

WISIMH: As if.

TOG:  Think I just want to stay here.

Damn, I really wanted an excuse to get a bagel. This is Fate’s punishment for being such a selfish bitch.