Last week, three emails from my mom downloaded into my box, respectively titled, “(Dad’s) metabolic panel for your records,” “thyroid screen” and “A1c.” Each opened to screenshots of Dad’s medical records full of incomprehensible (to me) numbers and abbreviations, copy-pasta’d and cc’d to my sisters and brothers-in-law. I did what
So I gave in last week and became the very last person on earth to join facebook. The other three horse-people of the apocalypse should be here shortly. Until then, perhaps you will friend me? I tried to find a lot of you, but having refused to give my email
Looonnnnnnnnnggggg time readers will remember that shortly after the birth of my second child, my parents moved across country to live near me and help me get back on my feet. I had combo PPD/medical malady requiring surgeries. My mother called it my ‘come-apart.’ (I’m pretty sure this is a
Visiting my parents this time made me so sick I threw up. For the record, I’m not a puker. As a comfort eater, throwing up is basically my psyche informing me the safe place is reversing on itself and exploding. “The atmosphere is so different in your house now, I
Freaky thing my mom mentioned last time I talked to her, which was before Halloween: “The big thing now,” she says to me, “is I have to remember to stay neutral toward your dad.” The ways in which my dad’s care is increasingly like a horror/circus side show , with