Thank you for the comments last post. Some of them were like therapy for me. I guess after I go through a scenario in my head and come up with a decision on what I think things mean, it never occurs to me that there might be an alternative scenario. It was both humbling and powerful to read some of your alternatives (that were totally valid and I’d never considered. Blew my mind. Thank you.)
It’s been hard to write in real-time these days. I don’t know how people do it. But! My smallest kid is potty training now, and yesterday she Number 2’d in her training pants, and I knew I had to come back and tell you about it.
(And here is the section I’ve written and then deleted a lot of the details about the actual crapsplosian spectacular. Because that kid will one day know how to read, and so will her friends.)
Suffice it to say: Despite all I know about the conservation of mass, this poop might have been bigger than the kid. And after I got poop on myself (gagging now, just recalling) I said, eff all this, and I threw the pants in the washing machine.
My husband had concerns there was so much poop it might not wash out, and the washing machine would clog, and we’d have to buy a new one.
I was willing to take the risk.
So we set the machine to power-wash and turned the heat to HIGH and threw those underpants in by themselves lest we ruin any other clothes (well, except a diaper changer cover that took collateral damage).
And, hey? It was a mistake. Just saying.
The whole hallway smelled like Steaming Hot Poop Stew in a crockpot for the rest of the afternoon. Should have thrown those pants away.
****
My dad has been dropping these little bombs. Each is another rocking rocking-chair in some room, and I am the long-tailed cat.
We were talking about the declining health of his 90+-year-old mother. The doctors estimate she has one-to-five years left, due to converging health problems. After visiting her, my dad suggested I get down to see her sooner rather than later, because he thought that estimate might be too generous. “She used to be sharp as a tack,” he says in this parsing-the-evidence voice. “But now she’s more like me.”
*
He was building a plane in the garage. Now he thinks it’s too big a risk to continue (I agree) and he won’t sell it because of the risk he’s done something forgetful that might make a wing fall off in flight.
What does one do with a half-made, unusable plane? He’s quite curious on the matter. I want to stick my fingers in my ears, because why does he think I know the answer to that? He’s been building a plane from scratch for the last five years. Five years I’ve been listening to his excitedly talk about his airplane flying buddies, and his plans to take Mom on jaunts from grandbaby house to grandbaby house (once my sisters have children). Watching a bunch of metal become something recognizable out in the garage has been an amazing thing to see – a feat of his own hands and brains and determination. It’s sat, untouched, for months now. His asking me where to get rid of it feels a bit like the end of Old Yeller, with him casually discussing which shotgun will do the best job.
*
For the holidays, my Mother-in-Law came into town, and we all went to my folks. Over dinner, my dad started to talk about the coffins at Costco, and what he wanted at his funeral, and how, since very technically he’d served in a war, there was possibly a loophole in which the government would pay for his burial costs. Cool, right?
I sat there, eyes huge, dinner spoiling in my stomach. Everyone asked polite follow up questions. I squirmed. My dad opined in detail about the options.
I said, “can we talk about something else?” Nobody heard this – possibly I only screamed it in my head? My father elaborated on the shocking expense of funerals these days.
My mother joked that he didn’t need to worry about the money – she was burying him in a cardboard box. Then she kissed his forehead and they laughed. Because my mom has always had this gift that she can stay with people, no matter where they go. I don’t have it.
I say too loud, in front of my MIL and my husband and my kids, “I’d rather talk about colonoscopies than this.”
My MIL looks at me with something akin to horror – which, I guess FYI, sarcastic ass comments to one’s parents isn’t considered the highpoint of witty repartee as it might be on, say, the internet. But (as I so delicately only thought at the dinner table and did not say, so… yay me?): Fuck this noise and all noises arising from it.
In the awkward silence that followed, my father deadpanned from across the table, “Well, Anne, what’s new in colonoscopies?” and proceeded to await my answer.
*
What makes it hard to write about, or even think about sometimes, is that I’m never quite sure if
1) I’m being a terrific ass in face of my parents’ super-well adjusted attitude. Or
2) I’m the only sane person in a room of denial-laden fucknuts. Or sometimes, worse,
3) I know I’m being an ass, but helplessly pushed into the role of the hysterical teenager because there’s this vacuum in our family in which someone must acknowledge the stress but no one’s willing to do it, so I get thrown under the familial bus, shrieking hysterically all the while. And
4) what I really want to scream is, “You’re not dying, you’re just getting senile,” but that is way harsh, Tai.
Writing this feels like the lowest, cowardly gossip.
I don’t know how you deal; you just do. Each day, each minute. And maybe you talk about colonoscopies. When my granddad was in the hospital for the last time, they loaded him up to take him downstairs for a biopsy. He verified that with us saying he just wanted to make sure it wasn’t his autopsy. It was simultaneously hilarious and soul-crushing.
He probably wants to talk about it because it’s one area of his life where he feels in control. And you aren’t being an ass for wanting to fight it kicking and screaming. In all honesty, your dad is probably glad you are so upset. At least someone cares enough to be.
Everyone has different coping mechanisms and theirs is freaking you out. Their coping mechanism is fine and normal, but so is your reaction to it. It is not fair to try to make them stop coping in their own way, but it is reasonable to privately talk to them about how you can not handle talking about your father like that and see if they would be willing to tone it down in front of you.
For the plane – could you find another airplane building aficionado? I’m sure that they would understand both the condition of the plane and the concern that it was built correctly. Plus, since an aficionado would know how to build them, they’d be able to check for mistakes.
I’m sorry that you have to go through all of this.
Hi Emily,
Thanks for the good thoughts. That’s a good idea about the plane.
Unfortunately, the hull is put together, so someone checking would have to
rip it apart to make sure it was done correctly. Even then, I think the
responsibility of it would weigh too heavily on my dad.
Thanks again for the good thoughts,
Anne
Anne, believe me, someone will buy the plane, he just has to advertise it in one of the trade magazines and some mechanic/pilot will check it out or part it out themselves. For self made aircraft it is always buyer beware. The buyers know this. Trust me, I’m married to one of these pilot types.
As for the talk of death, it’s your parent’s way of coping and you just aren’t there yet. It’s okay to not be there and to feel the grief over all these changes. Have a real conversation (if you haven’t already) and let your dad/mom know how uncomfortable you are and why. They won’t know until you tell them and they might think everyone else is just as comfortable as they are. Plus, I guarantee where both of your parents have days where they freak out like you did at Thanksgiving, they just don’t let you see it.
Wow. I love these words. They are heartbreaking, funny, and honest.
My favorite;
“Because my mom has always had this gift that she can stay with people, no matter where they go.”
I wish I had that ability as well.
First, I have to say that I’m coming out of lurking to say how happy I am to have a new post from you! I discovered your blog about a month ago and read the whole thing in order over a week. You’re wonderful and amazing and I loved reading about your kiddos and figuring out how old mine were at the time you were posting something.
Second, I’m so sorry for what you are going through! I do agree with your other commenters that everybody deals with this sort of thing differently. The way your parents are dealing with this is a valid method for them, but so is yours. I know from experience how hard it is when the coping mechanisms collide. My grandmother refused to acknowledge that she was dying from cancer pretty much until the day she died. She and I were close and I wanted to milk out each moment with her, to hear her stories again and learn all the things I thought I would have forever to learn. She only wanted to talk about baseball. Yup, baseball. I have no damn idea how to make her famous fudge…but I knew exactly what she thought about the team that I didn’t give a shit about. I keep trying to tell myself that this was her way of dealing.
So the kids have interrupted me 10 times and I only got 2 hours of sleep last night, so that’s my excuse for why this makes no damn sense.
Hang in there, girl! So glad to hear from you again!
Some above have touched on my thoughts. This grieving/coping/accepting/denial/wtf-edness is individual. Everyone grieves/copes/ accepts/denies/wtf’s in their own way, and that’s ok. There’s no ‘how to book’ on this, there are no rules. Some may tell you there are, but they are wrong. Your mom stays with him, you feel all asshole teenager. Both are fine. And this post? Not gossipy. This is you working through your emotions in a some-what public way, but in my recent journey through grief and wtf-edness, I’ve found that the random internet strangers usually see the situation through clearer eyes (and without all the family drama and complications) and provide some of the best insight. I’m not lumping myself in there, I’m just saying randoms have helped me process a lot of heavy emotions and helped to validate a lot of feelings. Keeping you in my thoughts.
*nodnodnod* Of course you feel all asshole teenager, that’s totally understandable. Your parents are freaking you out and you’re feeling powerless; you can’t object to that in some wonderfully positive adult way because there isn’t one. I feel for you so hard, hon.
Also, you are awesome in your insight and honesty and how clearly you write about this. (I wish you could be awesome in your happiness and copingness just now, too, of course. 🙁 )
Thank you, THANKYOUTHANKYOU! for retroactively justifying my having thrown away at LEAST twenty pairs of panties over the course of PTing my three girls (for some strange reason, my boy PTed without once pooping in his BVD’s). I knew there was a reason to do so, beyond HOLY-CRAP-that’s-disgusting-and-I-cannot-handle-it-make-them-go-away! As to the rest of the post…. I got nothing. Except for a weepy hard lump in my throat and lots of love for you and yours.
Woman, you NEED to vent. The internet is here for you. So sorry that you’re going through this and you are INDEED the only sane person in the room. That whole dinner table scene SUCKED. Hugs.
Oh, my lovey. When my mom’s mom was dying – in fact, it was two nights before she passed – I asked my mom if she and my aunt had discussed arrangements. No, they hadn’t. They weren’t ready to bury their mom. I deal with it by sticking to reality, to details – it’s my way of flicking the switch. Sometimes, things have to be done before you can let emotions kick in. I was so not ready to bury my dad last year, and I kept grasping at every little hope that he might come home. As much as it hurt, my mom & I were able to discuss Dad’s wishes.
Give your dad a HUGE hug from a Texas Daddy’s girl. 🙂
Steaming Hot poop stew had me rolling. At work. OMG…red face, tears streaming down…co-worker coming over – are you ok?? I pointed to the screen and she laughed with me. Yeah…I had to throw away a couple cloth diapers because, oh man, Val had some really gnarly poos. I tried to clean them off with the garden hose… but oh, no, stubborn stinky-poo wouldn’t budge. Buh bye dipie.
As for your dad’s plane – any way you can work with him to finish it? Wouldn’t that be awesome – help Dad finish this project (unless there’s, like 3 years left to finish it), and keep it for the kids. Even if it’s never flown – I know that’s awful to think of when you love planes… “look what your Grandpa built!” …that’s me, though. My name’s Laura, and I’m a packrat. Not a hoarder yet.
HUGS, Anne…and oh lordy, it might feel like gossip – but really, you’re getting it off your chest. Nothing wrong w/that. <3
Gossip? Gossip? Not at all–what this feels like is real time stuff, real time coping. We’re embarking on a similar, but different, but no, really, very similar thing with my Mom and we are all Taking It Very Seriously, and that also kind of sucks. A lot of silent glumness.
My mom and I were sitting in her SUV when she turned to me. “I’m dying,” she said. She looked right into my eyes, her blue to my green, and said it. Just like that. Plain as day.
I physically recoiled- I’ll never forget that- and immediately I told her, “You’re not. It’s going to be okay, we’re going to be alright. I promise, it’s going to be okay. You aren’t dying.”
She got angry, raised her voice and told me, “No one listens to me, no one ever f—ing listens since this started. I KNOW WHAT’S HAPPENING TO ME. I KNOW, and everyone is telling me I’m wrong. I’m not wrong. I’m DYING. Just LISTEN to me, HEAR me.”
One of the worst moments of my life. Top five, for sure.
Sometimes they say things that are shocking and terrible to us because they need someone to hear them, too… Maybe they need to yank it from inside themselves and toss it out into the air where it’s out and away- a different kind of therapy? Who knows. I do know what it feels like to sit there and hear that, and I’m so sorry I could puke. But you’re not gossiping. You aren’t. You’re throwing it out there.
I was going to write something and then changed my mind. I’ve tried to leave a comment here for the past 20 minutes and I keep deleting.
My dads reaction to his cancer has me so confused. Conversation is no longer normal. He is acting bizarre and I can’t blame him. I’m not sure why I wrote that other than it is what it is. I love reading your posts. I feel like I’m listening to a friend when you write.
Thanks.
I for one love lowly cowardly gossip and firmly believe it’s a survival mechanism so there. The holidays suck even when everyone is happy and healthy so you are fucking entitled to every feeling you have and that is that. And for the record I threw away several pairs of shitty panties when my eldest was training I just could not take the pooperific scent in fact I double bagged em – good luck sistah
No, no, no, this is not gossip, this is talking. It’s what keeps us from exploding.
And, yes, they may be in denial, but it sounds like they’re handling it. For me, now that my kids are grown and that huge responsibility is lessened, nothing else seems quite that bad. Your parents may be less upset because of this.
And, your dad can be very funny. “More like me” is either very astute or witty.
Be well,
Jenny
I think writing like this is magical and really, the only reason to write.
My god, I love your family. And this: “Because my mom has always had this gift that she can stay with people, no matter where they go.” That may be the most gorgeous line to every come out of your brain.
I had to pry the details out of my dad. It is the crudest thing to have to force someone to answer, “Well, exactly how long do you think you’ll be alive? What do the doctors say?” It is terrible to force the subject, “Where do you want to be buried? Do you want to be cremated? Any place that you recommend?” Imagine pushing, asking, cornering, please I hate this but you’re running short on time and I need to know.
It is all terrible and and wrong. Any way it happens it will fucking suck. All of it. And one day it will be over, and it will be a new level of suckage that you never even thought could exist.
Some day, you’ll come across a post like this one and realize that although it was terrible, now it is merely sad. And you lived through it. You laughed and cried and watched your children grow up, wistful that he was here to see it all. And you’ll know that somehow he does see it. And it will be okay.
Poop Stew! Steaming Hot! Ah, I remember those days. ::fondly/horrifiedly recollecting::
About being inappropriate at Thanksgiving: I wish I had something pithy, humorous, and consoling to say. I am now just on the cusp of aging parent issues, and I can only begin to imagine what my parents and I will face in the future. You have my sympathies and my good thoughts, always.
Damn! When will I learn!? Braggin’ about no poopie oopsies from my boy in my last comment. Pretty sure I idiotically commented a few years ago on here that my third daughter had never dropped bombs in the bathtub. Right before she put me in my place but fouling the water three times in one week.
Am a frikkin’ eejit. Obviously.