I had to take care of my sister on the phone. Her friend is challenged and my sister needed help managing her, and then there was her work to talk about.
Nothing about me, of course.
The phone call was cut up three times by her trying to take other calls, and my end, it was made harder by trying find places away from my parents and their noise. Stairways and alleys, jumping around.
I saw his thermometer needed batteries and went to the basement to replace them while I was on the phone. The CNN was on, so I stepped outside to hear, into the mud stirred up when I tried to clean the nasty home-made flagstone patio — no drainage planned — in this January Thaw.
Add this to feeling denied about getting out and doing what I need to do — a bit of spring fever — , plus not being able to contact people, worrying I did something wrong, and when I got the lecture about not leaving the door open and not tracking mud, the standard lecture about how slowing down and thinking more would make my life better, well, I took it badly. Lots of head banging.
I brushed by my father, who has taken to blocking pathways, and went upstairs.
My mother told me to be quiet.
I tried to explain what happened, asking her to echo it back.
“It happened,” she told me, “because you were living you life as you like to live it.”
Huh? I’m here, a servant to them, and I am living my life as a like to live it? Huh?
Maybe my nature is exposed, because it’s who I am, but because I am making choices, “living my life as I like to live it?”
My father told me that “You have to change yourself if you want to. It’s up to you.”
Yeah, I can. But I can’t change into you, no matter how hard I try.
He asked if I wanted to go on a drive with them. “You can come with us. You can help too.”
Doesn’t he get the fact that between them slowing down, the missed hip replacement and much more, there is work to be done by me?
I did tell him all this, down to his difficulty communicating, and he was nice. “We don’t want you to be our servant. We want you to claim your life.”
Yes, but, those are words. The actions, well, they are people who like being taken care of.
The drier died two weeks ago. I did some dismantling to see what could be fixed, but couldn’t see easily replaceable parts. On my second laundromat trip, my mother pushed my father to get a new one.
He responded by telling me we needed to look for what could be fixed. Five days ago, I pulled out the drier for access, and left the right Torx driver for him.
He hasn’t touched it, and tomorrow I’ll have to wash her urine soaked rags again.
The intention may be there, but the push is not.
And my mother thinks it’s because I am “living my life as I like to live it.”