How did I miss that?

If you've stayed with me this long, you are obviously a glutton for punishment. I have done nothing but burden you with emotional baggage for three months, Reading my drivel is the equivalent to slowing down to catch a glimpse of a car wreck. 

Or, maybe you are among the few who have been with me for awhile and have realized that someone is missing from the story.

No. Not Brad Mosiman. Most of you are astute enough to realize that if Amy Mosiman is still standing,  it's because Brad Mosiman propped her up and tied her shoes. Brad Mosiman is always there. And for the last few months, he's been in agony because he, too, could see that we were on an unalterable course. It's tough for Brad Mosiman to not captain the ship he's on; especially when it is so clearly heading toward the shoals. So he did what he could. Adjusted the sails. Scrapped off barnacles. And...when all else failed, grabbed a bucket and began to bail.

No. The person you are looking for is strangely absent from this story. 

She had appeared  a few years ago, at the introduction of one crisis and then vanished with the arrival of this most recent one. 

Where is the girl who hid in a mulch bag fort at the grocery store? Who wept in restaurants and stood, paralyzed with fear, outside of automated doors? She was severely agoraphobic...embarrassed, ashamed, and afraid.  Where did she go?

"That's what I was wondering," my friend Deb said, shrouded in the shadows of her darkened kitchen, mid-crisis, "but then I figured it out."

Enlighten me then, oh wise one. Deb had witnessed my panic attacks. Watched me wipe away the tears that humiliated me. Waited for our food orders as I fled the building. I was shackled to that frightened girl. As much as I despised her, she wasn't going anywhere.

"I've sat here and listened to you describe how the Lord has been working in your life," Deb smiled, "but you missed the biggest one." I waited, hopeful, because those small glimpses of God were the only things sustaining me. "During Covid, God made sure that Brad was there to support and protect you, yes?" I nodded. "But where is Brad now?" 

Prior to my Dad's fall, Brad Mosiman had been spending months preparing for the opening of his gym in January. We could not hit the pause button on that. Brad was working a full-time job with overtime, working at his gym, and scrambling to help my family all he could. "That was God," Deb told me, "He knew it was time to take Amy's crutch and hand her a sword."

I couldn't breathe, staring at my friend across the table. I felt numb as I considered her words along with my actions over these last few months. I have had to be demanding, persistent, obnoxious (which was never much of a stretch for me), and sometimes downright ugly. I have had to pretend to be strong for my parents. I have had to pretend that my world was not imploding for my students. I had assumed that that other girl was still with me because, despite all of my pretending, I was always so afraid.

But I was wrong. Without me noticing, she had quietly packed her things and left...like a morbid Mary Poppins...her work with me was done.

I've lost a lot during these last few months. But along the way, I gained part of myself back. I can walk into a grocery store by myself and not feel like warped walls are closing in on me. I can make simple decisions without having a melt-down. I can go out to eat at a restaurant without traumatizing the waitress with a flood of tears.

I smiled at my dear friend. "Let's go out for breakfast tomorrow," I said, "My treat."

"I wouldn't miss it," she grinned.

 

No...I do not need therapy. This IS therapy.

This was a picture taken on a "good" day.  January 16th. When I was still blind as to what was coming. I didn't realize how truly skeletal my dad looked until I sent the picture to my girls in California to "reassure" them and instead, ending up horrifying them with his condition. Two months later, he wouldn't even be able to sit up straight in bed.

I have a LOT of anger.

My friend Sarah is a good "feel your feelings" type of gal as I struggle to process the nightmare and residual effects of the last three months. Knowing that I can barely light a candle, she took my threats to raze buildings very lightly:

Sarah:  Arson is a very healthy way to deal with grief. Is it possible that under the mad, you are just so sad? But I mean, definitely burn shit down if you want to and I'll be your alibi.

A week later...

Amy:  It's time for you to remind me that hatred and fury can't power me forever.

Sarah:  Well, actually, it's still the first week after the funeral so this is the "Any idea you have is therapeutic and a healthy and normal expression of grief and I support all of your ideas except the ones that violate federal law" zone

Sarah:  Anger is Step Two in the grieving process. So really, you're just quite advanced--moved through Step One in a matter of days.

Amy:  I fucking hate the steps and refuse to be categorized into phases of grief. I am NOT the moon, for Pete's sake.

Amy:  What was Step One?

Sarah:  I think Step One was "angrily railing against prescribed psychological paths established by experts in the field."

Sarah:  Or denial. You aren't really much of a denial person. You are a big "meet whatever comes head on" person so I didn't actually expect that step to be a long one for you. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am angry.

I'm angry that all the confusion, uncertainty, and choreographed control of Covid so frightened my parents that they used it as a reason to bar my entry from their home for nine months because I'm a school teacher...robbing me of precious time to be annoyed by my Dad's political posturing as we played euchre. I am angry that, upon leaving the hospital after his fall, my dad was able to walk, supported, 50 to 100 feet, but the fourteen day Covid protocols made it so he couldn't leave his room at the rehab center...fourteen days that would set him back irreparably. I'm not sure if my dad ever actually left his room in the rehab center.

I am angry that it took an outside source, an in-take nurse from an assisted living facility we were considering, to review Dad's condition and point out a host of problems that we should have seen for ourselves but we foolishly, naively, trusted the "experts" instead to address.  Sound familiar?

I am angry that, instead of visiting my dad and trying to brighten his day, I entered his room like a military staff sergeant, taking inventory of his surroundings, his bedding, his curtains, and his waste basket...right down to the color of his t-shirts to see if it had been changed recently. Was his bedding wet? Were there any empty calorie-boosting drink containers in the trash? Were his socks on? Was he wearing pants? I would paw through his tangled sheets like a prairie dog, to get at his feet to check his heels. I became obsessed when I noticed his ankle bones grinding against each other. I'd raid the linen closet, disgusted each time because it was spelled wrong, to place a rolled up towel between my dad's poor painful feet.  I'd rub lotion on his feet and massage them when he admitted that he couldn't feel his toes.

I'm angry that my dad was not always afforded basic human dignity. When I noticed him chomping his partial like a bit, I asked him to pop it out into a container of water and about retched at what immediately rose to the surface. As I cheerfully scrubbed it in the sink, singing, "Splish, splash, Dad's partial is taking a bath," I casually asked my father when was the last time he'd brushed his teeth and he couldn't remember. I immediately added that to my inventory list. 

I'm angry that a doctor would question how I knew that my dad was experiencing frequent and excruciating back spasms when I expressed strong concerns about my father's quality of care. I'm angry that being appreciative and kind wasn't working and that my use of the work "fuck" increased exponentially. I'm angry that the same doctor would point to a one pound weight gain as proof of improvement. "My dad is not a fucking infant," I snarled in response. 

I'm angry that I was invisible. Which meant that everyone who was in need of care or who was advocating for the care of others was probably just as ignored. I poetically fancied myself a gunslinger, standing in the dusty, deserted street at high noon, demanding pain killers for my dad who was begging for relief and often, death. Gandalf, on the bridge with his staff planted, bellowing, "You shall not pass," as the promised twenty minutes turned into thirty, then forty as staff slipped silently past me in the hall, like I was a ghost.

I'm angry that my mother, who was letting my dad crush her hand as he battled spasm after spasm ("Are you SURE it's a spasm?") watched me fight my way off the floor where I was kneeling by Dad's bed, to stand and video tape his torture before stomping into the nurse's station to hold my phone in front of them, tears streaming down my face, as I begged them to come. "How much longer does my mother have to witness this?" I screamed, thrusting my phone forward. I'm angry that my mother had to wonder what I was doing afterwards, when we'd gotten Dad settled for the night, after I'd helped her into the car, and then paused behind it to throw up, before getting in to drive us home. 

I'm angry that I can't delete that video from my phone.

I'm angry that my father would dismissively wave his food tray away and that they would sometimes just turn to carry it out with me chasing after them.

I'm angry that I didn't trust that my father's pain was just too great to attempt a "transfer." As I helped the PT to bear my dad's weight, holding my foot firmly in front of his as we worked to move him from the bed to the chair, my heart disintegrated as he sobbed, whimpering for help. My father cried the entire fifteen minutes that we tortured him and I could hear that fucking doctor's smug voice in my head, "Well, that's what you asked for." I never demanded physical therapy again. 

I am angry that, despite notes that I posted, staff would close my dad's curtains so that this man, who lived by the clock, grew confused and disoriented, never knowing whether it was day or night. I am angry, that in his fear, he would call my mother at 2 in the morning, asking where she was. Where he was. 

I am currently being crushed beneath the weight of my anger. But that is okay...because the anger eclipses my profound grief and guilt. Because, in the end, the one that I am angriest with is me. 

A missed call

I had a moment yesterday. A Moment. An out-of-the-blue, sock-you-in-the-stomach moment.

For the past five years or so, I have explained to my in-coming 4th graders that Mrs. Mosiman's cell phone is always on because my Dad's health is a bit precarious and people cannot direct-dial the classroom. So...for five years or so...on the rare occasions that my cell rings, kids will race to it, see if it reads "G'ma & G'pa" and, if it doesn't, press ignore. 

Not once in five years has it EVER read "G'ma & G'pa."

Yesterday, my phone rang and every one of my 4th graders froze.

No one raced to the phone.

I took a shaky breath and one of my sweet honeys rose out of his seat to offer a hug, whispering, "You don't have to worry about him anymore."

Dang.

This is tough.
 

Not sure what air mattress to buy? Maybe you should sleep on it first.

 It was a seemingly simple task. "Sydney Lynn," I said, "Could you please go pick out a small air-mattress for you and your sister to take turns sleeping on at Grandma's?" Savannah and I would spend the night with my mom Friday into Saturday for the funeral and Sydney would stay with me from Saturday into Sunday. Sydney disappeared into the bowels of Stuff-Mart while I was stationed with Savannah in the pits of hell (the photo kiosk). 

Finally finished, we dashed off to camping supplies to find Sydney. But where was she? "I'm in bedding," she announced over the phone. I reluctantly left the twenty dollar air-mattresses behind to join her only to be faced with overpriced options designed for dignitaries. "We don't need an inflatable headboard," I insisted while the girls described the PTSD that they suffer when their pillows slip off the air-mattress cliff into the great unknown.

"I wanted a twin," I stated. Sydney held up her phone. "Dad said that he's sick of you sleeping like a Taco Bell gordita in Grandpa's chair," she smiled. "She looks more like a chalupa," Savannah said helpfully. "Either way," Sydney explained, "we need a bed to accommodate two comfortably."

"The pump is built in?" I exclaimed, reading the box as I began filling out the loan papers to afford this monstrosity. Thinking longingly of the twenty dollar air-mattress in camping, I helped the girls wrestle this white water river raft into the cart.

Later, my mom and I watched, with no small amount of concern, while her living room disappeared as Savannah plugged in the pump and the air-mattress quickly inflated the space like foam insulation. Somersaults, back-flips, and assorted acrobatics were now employed to take us from one side of the room to the other. "I feel like the Princess & the Pea," I muttered to Savannah, realizing it would take very little effort on my part to touch my mother's ten foot tall ceiling from my prone position. "I meant for our presence here to be unobtrusive and subtle," I whispered to Savannah as my mother escaped to her bedroom; obviously soothed and comforted by our camping out in her living room like homeless squatters. 

"We could have just used sleeping bags," I complained, floating on my cloud of comfort. "You know what they're called, don't you?" Savannah asked me as I curled like a cantankerous kitten into a ball. "What?" I hissed. "Sleeping bags," Savannah repeated, "They're called nap-sacks!" "You know, then," I countered, "that a person who sleeps next to a close relative is called a nap-kin." 

I tried complaining about the air mattress to Sydney the next day but she insisted that I was blowing it out of proportion.

Again...it was a simple task.