The last rambling post told you of the day that finally broke me.

I had called my siblings and went through my nightmare of a day and told them that I don’t know what to do. I can’t sign up to do more for my dad. I don’t trust that he can take care of himself. I was tired of him verbally assaulting my mom and I when we tried to help. I needed some support.

They both live in a different state, so there isn’t much they can do. But I needed them to know that I was going to push for my dad to be put in an assisted living space. I had reached a point that I didn’t feel like we had any other choice. Thankfully they agreed (my other option was to drop my dad at their doorsteps and let them sort it out)…. so I guess I didn’t give them too much of a choice, but at least I moved forward knowing that they understood.

It was still going to be a battle. I didn’t have power of attorney. There was no way he was signing over any control to me. Based on how out of it he was, there was no way that he can be considered of sound mind.

It wasn’t clear what was going on with my dad physically. He was really out of it. He was super combative, they had to sedate him and restrain him to the bed. I talked to a doctor about his 3rd day, at the second hospital and finally had some hope. Not that he had a miracle cure… but hope that he would help set me on the right path with getting Pops the care he needs.

He understood that since the traumatic brain injury (TBI), my dad has never been the same. He understood that every medical setback (seizure, illness, surgery) set us back for MONTHS on his ability to take care of himself. The doc, who had treated my dad before, understood that my dad likely scheduled the surgery in order to get his hands on more painkillers. He understood that even on the “good days” my dad is not able to make sound decisions, especially where his medical needs are concerned.

I worked with the team at our local hospital, and they were able to place my dad in a skilled nursing facility right across from the hospital. They weren’t specifically a good fit for my dads’ temperament (due to the TBI), but they are close to home and would tolerate his obsession with needing to smoke.

The first couple of days were TERRIBLE. Of course my dad wasn’t happy to be there. It isn’t the nicest place, but most of these types of facilities are pretty much the same. My dad refused to walk with a walker, despite being completely unstable. He through a fit about it and tried to hit a nurse with his cane. They brought me in to meet the team of nurses, the nutritional team, and the physical therapy team…. I think they thought I could talk some sense into him, and get him to better behave – they were wrong.

But I tried. I told him to be nice. I told the nurses to hide the cane and leave the walker. Don’t give him choices. He told me he wanted to go home. I told him that this was his home until he can get stronger and take care of himself. It has never occurred to him that he will not likely ever be able to do so.

He hated it there. But I was sleeping better knowing that he was having several healthy meals a day. I took comfort in knowing that he was taking all his meds, when he was supposed to take them. I was breathing a little easier, knowing that if he had a seizure or a fall, that someone was there to help.

I told my mom to block his number. I took sole responsibility for taking care of his demands. I was the bad guy. I put him there. I would carry the weight of it, because I also felt the relief of it all, as weird as that sounds.

So I got the text messages at 2am that he needs more cigarettes. I told him that unless he is dying, he needs to only text during the daylight hours (he would only sometimes remember that). I got the phone calls demanding that we drop off his wallet and leave him alone, because he doesn’t need our help. I asked him how he was going to get cigarettes if he doesn’t need me… that was the only value he could see in keeping in contact with me – his middle kid, that has spent most of her adult life just trying to hold the pieces together.

I got the phone call that told me “Leave me the fuck alone! I don’t need you in my life. I don’t need your help! I am leaving this place and there is nothing you can do to stop me.” Somehow I gathered the strength to reply: “It’s a good thing that you raised me to be strong enough to stick with you. I love you and I will talk to you when you can be a little more respectful.”

The next day, it was as if nothing happened.

Every once in a while, I would get the texts at all hours of the night. Sometimes they make zero sense. Other days are okay.

I admittingly do not go visit him at the home. They still have a lot of concerns with COVID, and frankly my dad doesn’t really register who I am when I am in a gown and mask – it makes the whole thing weird and uncomfortable. I have picked him up for appointments and have seen him when I am dropping things off or signing papers. It’s not ideal, but it is the best I can do right now.

I feel guilty every time I come and go from there. I feel like the nurses judge me. I feel like the whole world judges me for putting him there, but it is something that I have come to terms with for my own sanity.

I have taken him to a few appointments since he has been living there. The first appointment was a DISASTER! He was concerned with some spots on his face (he has had skin cancer previously removed), so we were going to see his primary doctor and probably get a referral. The appointment was around 10am. A very unstable Pops sort of used his walker to get to my car. He seemed “okay” though on the ride over.

He could barely walk from the handicap spot to the door of the doc office. He really didn’t use his walker to stabilize his walk – always had one side off the ground. And trying to get there in a hurry! I finally got him inside, sat him down and moved my car to a proper parking spot. When the doc finally called him back, it was clear he wasn’t going to be able to walk. So they brought out a wheel chair to take him back.

Pops could not stay awake! Keep in mind, that I was just given the opportunity to actively take part in this guys’ healthcare. He didn’t share much with us the past few years. So I did what I could to answer the doctor’s questions. The doc made it clear that he thought I was a piece of shit, because this is the first he knew that my dad had family close by… EXCUSE ME, that is not my fault. All his docs and the social workers kept telling him that he can take care of himself!

The doc agreed that the spots needed to be checked by the dermatologist and gave me a referral. He helped me wheel Pops to my car and get him inside. He was afraid that the home was over-medicating my dad and told me that I should immediately report it. When I got him back to the home, his nurses came out. I told them about the weird behavior and they were SHOCKED. Despite his volatile behavior some days, they love him. He can still be charming when he wants to be… they had never seen him so out of it!

I got a call later, that they did some checking with the night shift, and my dad was so anxious to “go” to an appointment, he didn’t sleep at all the night before. Cheese & rice people…. make it harder than it needs to be!

So we decided that moving forward, we would not tell him until I was pulling up to take him.

A couple of months later, I took him to the dermatologist to get that spot on his face removed and biopsied… We didn’t tell him ahead of time that he had the appointment, so I picked him up and all was good! He was alert. He was excited. He was pretty cooperative (even buckled his seat belt)! We drove to the next town over so he could see the doc and their amazing staff. I filled out the paperwork as best as I could (I’m still pretty new to being in charge of him and don’t know the whole big picture)… but I was still shocked when we went in the exam room.

The nurse was asking him questions about his over-all health. He was flirty and charming, but answered every question with a no. Luckily the nurse was watching me for answers as well… Do you suffer from anxiety? No (as I nod my head yes). Do you suffer from depression? No (again, nodding profusely). Do you have trouble sleeping? No (yep… sure does). Do you have any allergies? No (this time I had to speak… what about penicillin? Oh yeah, I am allergic to that…) Do you suffer from seizures? Nope (I’m sorry, what?!?). No wonder all his docs kept feeling he could take care of himself! He has zero issues!!!

The appointment went well. The staff there was great. As we were leaving, I asked Pops to just stand there in the lobby while I made the follow up appointment. It was hot outside, and there was no reason for him to go rushing out (oh, except I promised cigarettes and McDonalds before I dropped him back off). But he didn’t listen. So I remote started my car to get the air running, and unlocked the door. He was pushing his walker along, and I yelled out the door to wait, there is a step down! As soon as I said it, he fell in the parking lot. Scraped up his leg and arm on the hot asphalt. I struggled to pick him up from the ground, until the nurses came out to help. We got him in the car, and they made the appointment while I sat in my running car with him. So he cussed the whole way back, while I tried to make light of the situation… and then I bought him lunch and took him back to the home.

I’m literally shocked that the staff at the nursing home lets me take him places, because I always bring him back a little worse than when he left.

Lately he has had a hard time keeping his cell phone functioning (I think he just doesn’t charge it). So I mostly hear from his nurses.

One fun day in particular, I got a call at 6:45am. The nurse wanted to let me know that “Mr. Wayne will need cigarettes, he is down to 2.” No problem, I will bring some by after work that day, so he was going to need to pace himself. She called back 10 minutes later – he also needs a lighter, because he lost his…. Okay. After work. She called one more time that morning to confirm that after work I would bring by both things. FFS!!! I was already frustrated by 7:15 am – so I went to the store and dropped off Mr. Wayne’s needs before work – because otherwise who knows how many calls I would get.

This is just to share the “usual” interactions I have with the facility.

One night, I got a call (after 9pm), that said they were calling about my dad, to please call back. It isn’t urgent.

So I called the next day. I spoke to someone who told me that they called because they moved my dad’s room. Okay, cool. You don’t have to let me know that stuff at 9pm – unless it is for a behavioral or medicinal reason, you can move him to any room! That was it, end of conversation.

Later I get a call, and it’s urgent. I call back… Pops has COVID and isn’t doing well. They want to take him to the hospital. I told the nurse that they absolutely should. Then she proceeded to yell at me because I did not answer the call the night before. I told her what I was told when I did call back, and it was still my fault for not talking to HER. I’m sorry… WHAT?!?

These past couple of weeks, he has been hospitalized for dehydration, refusing to eat, refusing his meds… he seems to have given up. I can’t fight for him, if he won’t do his part too. A cough and cold on my side, have been keeping me from going in there and yelling at him to pull his stubborn head out of his ass and get better… But next week we are facing it head on.

This week, my brother and sister will be in town. Maybe seeing the three of us together will be what he needs to change his attitude. Or maybe he is just done… I mean, I kind of get it. He is stuck in the worst version of Groundhogs Day, EVER.

For now…. I just keep hoping. I keep hoping that I will see some glimmer of the dad I know and love. I hope that I can spend 10 minutes with him, without him telling me to fuck off and leave him alone. I hope that I go back to getting annoying texts about needing cigarettes or whatever else he is craving. I hope that he finds the strength to continue to burden me. That sounds weird, but even if he is ready to give up, I am not so sure my heart is ready to do the same.

I don’t know how much more time we are going to get with Pops. I don’t know if any of it will be quality time. I have been mourning the loss of him for longer than I can remember. I am not ready for people to come out of the woodwork to tell me how great he was and how sad they are that he is gone. Trust me… I know. I also know he burned bridges and was hard to be around, even before his health took a turn. But honestly… I’m just not ready for the shit-show of support that will show up, when he is no longer around to benefit from the love and strength of it all.

When you are lucky, a little girls’ first love gets to be her daddy. Please don’t ever doubt that I love this man. I would have washed my hands long ago if I didn’t. He is not the same as the man I grew up loving – but luckily for him, I remember that guy. I never knew what I was signing up for, when I identified as a “daddy’s girl”… but it’s been a wild ride.

Thanks for reading through this… I felt a strong need to share a glimpse of this journey we have been on. I know that in the end, folks will judge & criticize – tell me all the things that I could have done, or should have done – without ever taking the time to see it from my point of view. I’m just over here trying to raise teenage boys, to invest in my amazing relationship, work full time, go to all the events all over the place, help out with school stuff, be a good daughter and sister, be a good friend, be a good bonus-mom (when we have him), and just generally try not to lose my mind. But go ahead and judge. It’s fine. It’s all good.

I’ve been wanting to write this for a while, but couldn’t ever find the right time, or the right words… so buckle-up buttercup – I have a story to tell. It’s my story, and mine alone. My siblings have their own stories and views when it comes to dad – and I respect that it isn’t the same.

My dad. His health has been a struggle for a while now. He has been dealing with mental issues for a very long time (since at least the 1990’s). He has suffered seizures off and on for at least 13 years. It’s been a lot. And it has been a long and windy road.

So I am going to start… this might turn into a few posts, because I could honestly write a book about it.

Just to be clear. I love my dad, unconditionally. And I am not, nor will I ever be, a victim.

There are two different versions of my dad in my mind… who he used to be, and who he is now. I got from him a love of baseball, camping, being outdoors, dogs…. And he helped teach me to love my people with all of my being.

He used to be the life of the party. He is a charmer. He was never perfect. He is an alcoholic (sober now for about 14 years). We have gone round and round about all the ways he feels I wronged him in his life – you read that right… He blames me for a lot of things. So it is only fitting at this stage in life that I get to be the bad guy still.

He is angry that I didn’t support him in his recovery the first time he got sober. We are talking 1993/1994 – I was 15/16 years old, and was home with my little brother, while my older sister went to the family counseling sessions. I abandoned him, and in his mind it is unforgiveable even 30 years later. Because every teenage daughter should be shouldered with that kind of responsibility.

After this first “recovery”, he stayed clean for a while. He and my mom had been divorced for a few years. He dated (some real interesting women now and then)… and eventually married a dentist in 1996. She turned out to be a real nightmare. She often made it so that he had to choose her over his kids. That’s not all on her (the evil witch she turned out to be), that was 100% his choice. But he was happy, or at least pretended to be on the surface.

During this sober period, he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Let’s face it – long term abuse of your body can have very real and long lasting effects. He was being treated with meds. He was working a job he loved (a job that paid for his first recovery stint). He appeared to be living his dream.

Then he hurt his back – he has had back problems for years. Surgery and pain took him out of work. He became addicted to pain killers, and using them much more frequently than prescribed. Lost his job. He stopped taking his meds for his bipolar disorder. He started down a path that led to a very dark place. How bad did it get? Let me tell you…

If you don’t know, people who have addictions tend to have an addictive personality. Meaning, whatever they are choosing as their vice – it will be obsessive and unrelenting.

Remember me mentioning that my step-monster (just kidding, I never called her anything other than her wretched first name) was a dentist? Well… she used her handy little prescription pad to make sure that the two of them were never out of their precious vicoprofen.

If you are not familiar, vicoprofen is a potent pain killer (hydrocodone + ibuprofen), that is a Class II controlled substance (NSAID/opioid combo). Typically it is prescribed for a short period of time (less than 10 days) for acute pain. Usually, your doctor would prescribe in a way that says to take one pill every 4-6 hours as necessary – but do not exceed 5 in a day.

Well… this happy couple was taking 15-20 pills DAILY.

I mean.. authorities would catch on if she was writing all the prescriptions for her husband, right?!? Of course! So she wrote them in my name, my siblings names, his siblings names…. whoever they could think of. The real kicker – he had distanced himself from us so we didn’t really know. I found out with the DEA called me at work and asked me to come down for some questioning. Good times.

It was a shit show. I was terrified. I confronted him. He blew me off even more. They both got into legal trouble – she was no longer able to write prescriptions, but was allowed to remain in practice. She kicked him to the curb. He was broke. He was broken. He was addicted. He was in pain. He was unbalanced. He was once again at rock bottom. No more access to pills – so back to drinking it is! And I was fucking angry.

The next few years were kind of a blur. He lived in his little pick up truck off and on. He stayed in hotels. He stayed in my mom’s garage for a while. He stayed with me for a very short time – but his drinking and continued anger towards me was a little much for us to handle. I bought him a dog – because he has always loved animals and his ex-wife took all of theirs. He somehow went back to his ex-wife (tattooed her face on his arm)… and then was out on his ass again (the dog came to live with me at that point).

There were a lot of lost years here. Occasional calls. He wasn’t part of my wedding – my brother walked me down the aisle. Most calls were catastrophic. We were living in a different town, but several “welfare checks” were called in. I can distinctly remember being VERY pregnant with my boys & picking up a call from him while I was shopping with my sister at Target.

He told me that life isn’t worth it anymore. He told me to tell my brother to come and get his stuff the next day. I lost it. In the middle of Target, pregnant, sobbing. My sister was PISSED! She grabbed the phone and told him to “just fucking do it already and stop calling to make us all feel like crap”. Now, don’t get all judgmental about that. My sis would have shanked anyone who made me feel any bit uncomfortable while I was pregnant (I truly love her for it). We were done.

Of course we got through that. Stayed in touch, but not close. My nephew was 5, and had never met my dad. I had my boys and knew that I didn’t want them around my dad, if he couldn’t get his shit together. So I told him – get sober, or you do not get to see your grandkids. Finally something he felt that was worth fighting for.

He did get sober. He ended up working at the recovery center and living there for years. We were so thankful, because it kept him “clean” and helped him work his steps every single day. We would take the kids to see him. Movies, grab a meal… nothing major. He dated someone for a bit, and it was nice to have a version of him back in our life.

But of course….. now that he was sober, all those years seemed to catch up with him.

This year, I finally lost my shit.

Pops was working with some doctors on some back/neck pain that was also giving him some difficulties walking. He made the appointments, somehow got a ride to a neighboring town to see the surgeon. He scheduled a surgery.

He seemed to be doing okay. Other than his occasional rants toward my mom, he seemed pretty stable (granted, I didn’t know how bad his living space had gotten), but for his “normal” we were looking pretty good. Clark & I took him out to eat for his birthday – the first time that they had met. It went better than I thought! Pops has a hard time remembering some stuff that is currently happening, but he can tell you stories of growing up that are clear as ever to him.

During lunch, he asked me for a ride to the hospital in the next couple of months for his surgery- no problem! The hospital is in the town I work in, easy enough! I didn’t get to meet with the doc or nurses to discuss expectations before. He was in charge of his own medical decisions. He expected to stay one night.

After that first night, I spoke to his nurse. She felt he was unstable, and weak. She wanted to talk to the doctor about keeping him for at least one more night. I explained that he lives on his own. He needs to be 100% independent. He needs to be able to get up from bed, to walk to the bathroom, to bathe. He does not live with me. He cannot stay with me. He needs to either go to a skilled nursing facility or be ready to take care of himself before discharge.

I had this conversation multiple times, with multiple nurses and they all pretended to hear my concerns. They explained his behaviors and asked if it was “normal”. Sorry ladies – there is no baseline for “normal” since his TBI. They recommended that he go to a nursing facility until he was stronger. He refused (shocking, I know).

He wanted to smoke. And nursing homes do not allow smoking. Totally logical…

The hospital wanted him to use a walker. He refused. He doesn’t need that. He is fine. He just wants to go outside and smoke.

I told them to stop giving him options. Tell him that he is going to a facility – that is the only way he can be discharged. I thought we were all on the same page, but they did me dirty. After a week (much longer than he thought the stay would be), they told me that he is ready to be picked up.

Are you sure? It didn’t sound that way yesterday…. again, he lives on his own and needs to care for himself. They assured me and I left work to go get him.

So let me set a scene here…. I am waiting outside (because COVID rules are still in effect at the hospital). I called and let them know I was waiting. 30 minutes go by. Then 45. I called again – they are working on his discharge, he will be right out.

Then I get a call from home. One of my boys, Kevin, cut his hand pretty bad, and needs to go to the hospital, because he will probably need stitches & he passed out. Queue up my anxiety – not because the family at home cannot handle it, but just the fact that I cannot go right now to be there for my kid. So I am frantically trying to send my mom the insurance info, so she can go to the ER, and the hospital that is discharging my dad calls me.

The nurse. She wants to give me his discharge instructions, so that I can take care of him. NOPE. NOPE. NOPE. I told her – he is to take care of himself, so she needs to go over the discharge instructions with him. “But I don’t think he understands…” Whelp, then I guess he should still be in your care or discharged to a facility.

About then, they wheel him out. I can tell before I even go to open the door, that he cannot stand, walk, or even get from the chair to my car. I got a little snippy with the nurse who brought him out (maybe a little unfair, but I was feeling some major stress). I asked how they expected him to care for himself, if he can’t even get into my car?!? “Well ma’am – he wants to leave, and we cannot keep him.”

I wanted to get home and see my kid. I was done.

So we lifted my dad into my passenger seat. He cussed at me. He cussed at the nurse. He couldn’t buckle his seatbelt. He wouldn’t let me help.

The discharge nurse came out to go over his after care instructions. He told her to fuck off, so she did. She tried to have him sign the paperwork, but he could barely lift the pen to the right spot. No instructions given – just that he can take a shower later.

So off we went. He cussed at me for the first 15 miles. Then apologized for being an asshole. Then asked if I have his new prescription for painkillers yet? (FML dude… I haven’t even gotten us back to town yet – but tells me what his goal was all along). We got stopped in some traffic in a neighboring town… I stepped on my brakes, and he said “If you get in an accident, I am going to be really pissed at you!”…. At this point, I sent a text to Clark & said I was going to reach across, open his door and leave him on the side of the highway! It was VERY tempting… but we drove on.

My anxiety was rapidly increasing… how was I going to leave him to take care of himself? How was my kid in the ER doing with getting stitches? When will my car stop telling me that he isn’t buckled… UGH! This day isn’t going to end well…. and his behavior was deteriorating by the minute (right along with my patience).

We get to his house, I pulled into the driveway so he had the shortest distance to walk. He rents a back bedroom in a residential house. His landlord was an angel, who looked out for him all the time – but I KNEW that he was going to need more. He was in no shape to care for himself. BUT – I can’t stay with him, in his disgusting tiny room (that my mom had actually cleaned, but still). There is not room in our tiny home for him to stay. What the fuck am I going to do?!? I may be a bitch from time to time, but this is my Pops (who I do love a whole lot) and I have no clue what to do… and honestly, I just really want to see my kid.

But, one problem at a time. Let’s get Pops out of my car and into his room, so he can smoke and do whatever else he was dying to do.

Me: “Pops – let’s get you out of the car. Put both feet out of the car, and on the ground, and I will help you stand up.”

Pops: “Fuck you, I can do it”

He puts one foot on the ground. Can’t get the other foot out of the car. He half falls out of the car. I picked him back up and put him on the seat.

We did this 4 more times, until he LET me help him put both feet down.

Me: “Stay right there. Here is your cane, but don’t move until I get your door unlocked. Seriously, DON’T MOVE!!!”

I turned to get the keys out of the back seat. Turn right back around, and he is no longer standing. He is flat on his back on the front lawn (thankfully)… This is when I snap.

Me: “DO NOT FUCKING MOVE!!! I’m calling an ambulance, and you are going back to a hospital!”

Pops: “Fuck you. I’m not going. I need a cigarette, can you get me up so I can smoke?”

Remember, he just had BACK SURGERY… so it isn’t like I want to try and pull him up to standing. Plus he is a lot taller than me (like almost a foot taller). Not the easiest thing to do, even when he is the least bit helpful. So I chatted with the 9-1-1 operator. They are pretty familiar with my dad. I explained our current scenario. She asked if he his his head (his response was “Fuck you” – shocking, I know) – I told her that I didn’t think so… she let me know that fire & ambulance were headed our way.

I wanted to just sit right down and cry. I watched him lay there. I listened to him continue to cuss me out. I listened as he told me that he doesn’t need me and I should leave him alone (but help him get more cigarettes and his pain pills first). I waited for the cavalry to arrive.

Pops argued with the medics. He didn’t need to go to the hospital, he just needed help getting up and to his room. I explained the whole situation, and I told them that I felt very strongly that he cannot care for himself, and should have never had been released from the hospital. Luckily they agreed. Luckily they were “familiar” with my dad, and recognized his decline. After a little battle, they loaded him up on a stretcher and took him to the ER…. Perfect, I was headed that way to see my kid.

Mom and Kev were wrapping up paperwork and he was heading home. Couple of stitches, keep it dry… make an appointment to have the stitches removed in a week. Other than having a student stitch him up (and I guess a horrible person overseeing the task), he was in and out without issue. He was waiting in mom’s truck in the parking lot as the ambulance arrived with my dad. Kevin – in all his dry-humor Kevinness – said “Thanks grandpa, for showing me up.”… I was thankful for the laugh (but in need of something stronger).

We chatted a bit with the crew from the ambulance. One of the ER nurses came out to talk to me… I let her know that he had surgery earlier in the week. That I felt the operating hospital wrongly discharged him to wash their hands of him. And that I felt very strongly that he was not in a condition to take care of his own basic human needs.

They were going to at least keep him overnight, so I finally headed home.

Through this whole living nightmare, Clark was asking how he can help? What can he do??? I didn’t know. I wasn’t sure what I was doing at the time. But I was welcomed home with a big hug that helped me pull myself together. And a cold drink to help me make a call to my brother & sister that wasn’t going to be the easiest.

If you are still with me on this journey, the next post will share what happened next, and where we are today…. I promise, I will wrap it up (for now).

I can remember the first time we saw Dad have a seizure. We had gone to the movie theater to watch an Alvin & the Chipmunks movie with the kids. It was around Christmas/his birthday. Before the movie got through the advertisements, he made a noise, that my sis and I thought was a chuckle…. but we soon realized that he was having a seizure.

My sis stayed with him, and folks nearby helped get him down to the ground to await help. I ran to the lobby and they called 911. It was scary, and we had our kids with us… we weren’t sure what to do.

He lived on his own, so I don’t know if we ever knew the extent of his health issues. I have no clue how often he had a seizure and didn’t seek medical attention. Thankfully we knew paramedics in his town, and we would often hear that he was being taken in. Or someone from the recovery center would find him and call for an ambulance – when he would let them.

It was an endless cycle of the same nightmare.

Seizure.

Dad being confused & disoriented – often not knowing who we are or why we are taking him to the hospital (or sitting in the ER with him).

They do a CT scan. It comes back clear.

They put in an IV – we tell them “he is a hard stick” and 4 or 5 tries later, they finally get it in.

They ask for a history. Every time. Even if we were in the same hospital a week ago.

They ask for a list of his meds (the list is long – and we had finally had him keep it typed up so we can have it with us).

They run tests.

They don’t know what triggered it.

They maybe adjust his meds.

Can he stay with you when he is released? Does he have anyone who can give him day to day care?

They let him go at some point – when they feel that he can take care of himself.

Copy & paste.

Again & again…. for YEARS.

We laughed a lot through our tears, worries and fears. There were times he was so out of it, that he told my brother & I to look outside at the starfish, before they disappear… he thought he was under water. We honestly never knew how he would react to the trauma his body was going through.

There was another time that he was fully convinced that the nurse (who was trying to run some neuro tests on him) was trying to kill him. He told me that he saw it on the news, and he was sure that she killed her husband! He told me that she killed him twice “once in English, and once in Spanish”….. Of course, she was the only one available to run these tests, and she was terrified of him.

Sometimes he would take out his IV and catheter & just walk on out. I cannot describe what it feels like to have the hospital call and ask if we know where he is.

All through this, my dad lived on his own. He was told by doctors that he can take care of himself. But when you saw how he lived – meds all over the place, not taking the right things at the right times… all his pain meds would be gone, but some of the other meds he would have in excess. We tried the pill sorters – but he often didn’t know what day it was. We even tried one that had a timing device – nothing worked, and he would just get angry that he needed our help… which wasn’t easy from another town. We were never sure how many meals he was eating, if he was drinking enough water…. just life basics.

Dad had a particularly bad medical incident – that I wrote about at the time… The consensus is that he hit his head on a rock during a seizure he had while he was outside smoking. It resulted in a traumatic brain injury (TBI). He was in the hospital for more than 6 months this time around… surgeries, rehab. I may have passed out in the ICU. He may have punched a male nurse. It was a lot.

He went to a skilled nursing facility for a bit once released – but no one wanted him as a resident long term. He can be very difficult. And he can get very angry. He has always been one to hold grudges, but the anger only really came after the TBI.

The rehab center where he was still currently living/working asked us to find him somewhere else – they weren’t equipped to deal with the challenges my dad was facing, and we could not blame them for wanting to wash their hands of it. He refused to consider living in an assisted living home (and at this point he had a reputation) – and the damn doctors still insisted that he can take care of himself.

It was time to find him a room closer to the town we lived in, so that we can help a little more…. Easier said than done.

Why is this still an issue? A topic of discussion? Why do politicians think that they should be allowed to make laws with regards to choices that affect my health – whether it is physical or psychological…. If it’s my body, WHY THE FUCK isn’t it my choice?

Based on the way several states are ruling, I would be a criminal. Because I chose to have a medical procedure, that saved my life & likely the lives of my boys – I could have been criminally prosecuted.

Regardless of your “beliefs” – religious or otherwise…. Why can’t you agree that it is an individual’s right to choose? Why should your morals affect my life?!?

Look. I’ve been through the ringer. I’m not “pro-abortion”…. But I also know that not all pregnancies are created equal. I KNOW this. I have lived this.

I wanted nothing more, than to be a mother. There was no accidental pregnancies in my life. There wasn’t an easy path to a planned one. I didn’t get to take a home test and do a cute little surprise to my husband. I got a defective reproductive system, a ton of heartbreak, medical intervention & finally two ABSOLUTELY FUCKING AMAZING KIDS!

Funny how “the government” won’t move to cover something like infertility as a mandated thing with insurance (I mean, a woman’s body is supposed to be able to reproduce, why is it not a medically covered issue to “fix”?!?) but then they want to make laws that prohibit the medical termination to a pregnancy for whatever the reason…. I don’t have a right to get pregnant, but then I don’t have a right to end it either?!?

I am one of the lucky ones. Might be hard to believe, based on what you have read so far…. But I am truly thankful. I didn’t even have to go as far as IVF to get my boys. I am not minimizing what I went through, but compared to what others experience, I am lucky.

When we found out I was pregnant, we were shocked to learn that I had 5 little miracles! But also 5?!?! Holy cow! Even the doctor was shocked…

I lost 1 little love in the 8th week. We were counseled on the risks of carrying quadruplets. There was less than a 20% chance that any of the babies would be born “developmentally normal”, and there was a high risk I could die during the whole process….. so yeah – exciting one minute, terrifying the next.

They talked to us about selective reduction. According to the cave-man style of thinking that seems to be on the rise… this would be a crime.

I won’t go into details about the procedure, you can look it up. But they asked us (me) to carry for a full trimester, so they could determine if there were any two that were stronger, more viable. Any two that appeared to be bigger, thriving. There was very little emotional comfort from these medical specialists – they knew i was making the best medical choice… they gave me all the stats. Just facts and procedures. Just the best medical care and outcome they can offer.

The heartbreak was all mine. I tried for so long to be a mom. I struggled with giving up two of my miracle babies in order for two others to have a really great chance at survival. That night I had some bleeding, and I panicked…. I just knew I was being punished by a higher power for making the choice I made…. My heart was BROKEN!

I had a happy ending, starting nearly 15 years ago…. I delivered 2 healthy boys (still 10 weeks early), but wow – I have been blessed!

Imagine if I had been sent to prison because of this heartbreaking choice I made. Does that sit well with you? Does that align with your beliefs?

What if it was a young woman who was raped and it resulted in pregnancy. Does your religious beliefs mean she needs to carry that baby, that horrific reminder of her trauma? And then – what if your state then said that your rapist has a right to visitation with their child…. Does that sit well with you? Would that help you sleep at night?!? Because that is what is happening!!!

I don’t judge folk for what they believe. I fully think that your beliefs & morals should be whatever sets your soul on fire. But please don’t let your beliefs infringe on anyone else’s rights… if you consider yourself “pro-life”…. Be for the lives that people chose to live.

You never have to agree with EVERYONE, but respect the choices they make & their right to do so.

If you think there isn’t a minute where those 3 little souls aren’t weighing heavy on my heart, you are wrong. Just like you are wrong to think that your beliefs trump the medical needs of others.

Be kind. Always…..

I need to do this more often… it is truly cathartic. Not only putting my random thoughts “on paper”, but sharing with y’all (and usually learning that I am not alone). I mean, I didn’t even realize that I did not post a single blog/rant in 2021… so weird.

Life is good right now. Insane, but good.

We are in year two of the “pandemic”, and we are doing pretty well – all things considered. Work continues to be flexible, but I am in the office most days. The boys have been able to stay in real school, which I am super grateful for. We got to enjoy a regular football season, an actual school dance, band performances… and hopefully we get to watch Nate play baseball soon!

I am happy. Like ridiculously happy with our perfectly-imperfect family. When you realize that you have found someone to love you in a way, that you didn’t really know you needed – that is pretty freaking amazing. Is it all romance and flowers? Hell no… it’s more muddy yards, family dinners, crazy adventures and daily laughs! Turns out, that is exactly what I need.

All in all, we are doing pretty amazing.

But you guys…. teenagers are A LOT. I mean…. A LOT!!!

It’s like – you should kind of know what to expect, because it wasn’t too terribly long ago, that we were that age… right?!? That is the furthest thing from the truth (not the part about it not being that long ago – but the part about knowing what to expect).

When I was in high school – I was kind of an all-around kid. Sometimes I came to school in boots and western jeans (hello Rockies!), and we would go line-dancing on the weekends. Other times it was dresses (with Doc Martins, duh). Other days it was surf/skate brand sweatshirts, jeans and flip flops. My friends were from all different aspects – we weren’t really labeled as any particular group of people…. just a loud and fun party crowd. I took advanced placement classes, choir, but then also had some easy classes to mostly socialize in… I got good grades, but was known to be a bit of a slacker. My closest friends back then are still my dearest friends now, and I am forever thankful to have them in my life.

Kids these days don’t seem to party like we did (thank you sweet baby Jesus)… but it definitely is not without challenges. My boys… they are like a perfect split of who I was in high school. They are so different from each other, but I can see me in each of them. I don’t know, maybe I am more crazy than I thought…

Let’s start with Nate. He clearly got his love of sports from me (just lucked out he got some other genes with actual skills, because that is NOT me). He is a proud, loud, (self-proclaimed) redneck. He loves Rodeo, hunting, fishing…. getting dirty. Don’t tell him this – but he is pretty hilarious most of the time – though often VERY inappropriate. I caution him often to be careful who he hangs around with, because while they like to have fun, their kind of loud and obnoxious fun can often be taken for causing trouble… and SOME of his friends seem to lack boundaries and common sense. I am thankful that school sports have cautioned him to be careful about his social media presence. He has his moments, where he is a total jerk (don’t talk to him after a game or rodeo – especially if he didn’t do what he felt was his best)! But there are glimmers of hope now & then – where he will thank me for showing up, or doing something for him. I don’t know if he does it on his own, or someone reminds him… but I will take it! He is a good student, could be great if he tried, but he is doing well and is enjoying school as much as the average teenage boy.

Then we have Kevin. My sarcastic, scary smart, artistic weirdo (said VERY affectionately – because I love weird). Kev is a whole vibe. He has his own style. He wears mostly black. He loves all things vintage… his favorite thing is to go to antique stores or bookstores. He has a vast collection of vinyl records (mostly from bands I have NEVER heard of, or classics – because he liked the cover & then realized it was good music). He also got a walkman for Christmas. You read that right…. a battery powered walkman, that plays cassette tapes. He is creative and messy. He comes across as quiet, but man – when he starts talking, you had better be ready! His sarcasm is unprecedented…. He is funny, if you understand his personality. He has a small circle of close friends. They don’t “hang out” much, but spend countless hours connected through their phones. He is doing extremely well in school. He is much smarter than I was, and seems to enjoy the challenge of learning. But, he is a procrastinator (sorry kid, that was a bad thing to inherit).

As you can tell, they don’t have a whole lot in common. But given the fact that they both have similar traits to me… you would think they would get a long a lot better than they actually do. But that is a big fat – NOPE. You would think by now they could sort it out and get along –NOPE. They only seem to tolerate each other most days, but sometimes, when we add another kid to the chaos, it seems to help balance them out a little.

Nate had his best bud stay the night recently. They (loudly) played video games. They giggled (uncontrollably) at really inappropriate things. They ate all the food in my house – and apparently threw cheese and lunch meat at each other (they picked it up… but had to explain what I was seeing in the garbage can). Kev occasionally told them what idiots they are, but it was a whole freaking night, without my kids constant bickering!!! We live out in the sticks, so there isn’t a whole lot of trouble these kids can get into without the use of a car…. But, these 3 fools did order McDonald’s from DoorDash in the middle of the night, while Clark & I were sleeping… I had to laugh at them, and admit I was kind of impressed that they knew the address and gave good enough directions to the driver – but I did warn them about basically inviting a stranger to the door in the middle of the night…. UGH

Where I struggle most, is making sure that they are safe & smart when it comes to social media. I can, at any time, go through their phone and accounts. I admit that I do not do this often enough. I don’t want to pry into their every message and photos… I just try to instill appropriate behaviors. I hope that they make good choices. We have had talks about connecting with people you don’t know, about not sharing any personal information – and about not posting anything (ever) that they would not want to explain to me, because it will all come out in the wash.

Right now we are working on reminding them to ask for permission… I get a lot of “Mom, after school, I’m going to go to the library/got get food with my friends/hang out at someone’s house”… It is never posed as a question, until I force them to ask. And, I’m sorry if folks think I am not hard enough on my kids – but I have a hard time saying no, once they finally ask properly. These fools spent a year+ on lock down, and I genuinely WANT them to go hang out and have fun! Even if it means I stay up late to pick up kids & drive them home. Or we have to run back to town more times that we would like… I want them to go out in the real world, and have real experiences, and I want them to know how to make the right decisions.

Y’all – raising teenagers is HARD. When the kids were cute and little – and everything could be solved with a hug and a snack…. there was a whole tribe of parents that seemed to support and encourage you along the way. While those folks are still there… everyone seems to be struggling on their own. We tend to not want to put things “out there” that don’t support the perfect online life.

I don’t know… maybe you are not as lost in this whole thing as I feel most days. I have been told over, and over again – “You are not hard enough on your boys!” But I really am doing my best. I try to not let the little things bug me. I try to listen and support. I go with the flow – until I lose my shit. Probably not the best parenting method out there, but it seems to be how I am wired.

I just want you all to know, that I am here for you. I have no idea what the hell I am doing… but I am here to lend an ear to if you need. I may not even have any good advice or the right words to say… but I can make you a snack, pour you a drink, and give you a hug & we can pretend it’s all going to be alright.