Ugh, so I wrote like, three half posts over the holidays, and I can’t remember what I wrote about in any of them, and now I have to find a way to finish them and shove them back in chronologically. I’m having a few roadblocks. First of all being my Mom broke her foot on Boxing Day (I think, somewhere after Christmas and before New Years) while chasing after the garbage truck in her slippers. Everyone kind of had Christmas on the brain and we forgot what day it was and my Mom heard the garbage truck and just went for it. Like a dog after a mail man. I woke up to our security cameras going off and through the magic of the Internet watched an HD video of her limping up the steps in my bed. She wasn’t sure it was broken, but I was sure it was broken, because it was my Mom and these are the things that happen to her. She broke her thumb getting hit in the face with an umbrella then rolling down the stairs. She’s a petite woman but somehow she just becomes unstoppable… Mass sometimes.
She had to have surgery to put a pin in it, I guess I’ll write more on that experience later, and how we are coping with her mass, now hobbled and unmoving (spoiler alert: not well.) But that’s taken up (rightly and what not) a lot of my time. Refuse to pick up after my sister out of spite, and my Mom’s motherly love is the only thing more powerful than my resentment. Without her mobile and picking up the used paper towels and food packaging my sister leaves around the couch, I become hostile. I’ve subsumed my Mom’s role, which is empowering (In the not quite fitting words of Leonard Cohen “I used to live alone before I knew you” I guess your Mom is literally the only one you can’t use that line on, but you get the point.”) I’m an adult again. I’m THROWING SHIT OUT. KATE’S RULES. I’m enjoying that. I’m not enjoying my Mom’s depression (obviously) or the fact she stubbornly refuses to stop moving around (remember the stairs and how graceful she is on two legs) when I’m not there to supervise\call for help. Before I take a shower I ask her what she needs, does she need food, does she need ice, does she need coffee or to go to the bathroom or the remotes or a pillow, she always says she’s fine. The SECOND water hits porcelain, this bitch is thumping around on her peg leg like the house is on fire. It sounds like we have MOVER’S IN. I don’t even know what she does! One time I leave the shower in a towel, and there is what looks to be a trail of blood from my Mom’s room all the way to the kitchen. Her foot is kind of numb, I’m thinking she cut her toe, or pulled her stitches and can’t feel it. I go downstairs, ‘Hi sweetie!” Not only was she not supposed to walk down stairs, she did it on crutches while trying to hold a mug and a full coffee pot. Yeah. I can’t. I can’t have kids.
So it’s been shit like that. She’s okay which is all that matters, but the lack of independence is depressing her, which depresses us, on top of the fact me and my sister have to come together to fill in the gaps which is not something that usually happens.
And my computer is shit. It’s not shit. I feel bad saying that. The guts are fine, but it’s a big ass 15″ laptop from 7 or so years ago, it’s massive, it’s heavy, the power cord and battery both went, so I have to carry it around plugged in, and the screen is falling off. Would love a new set up but money is so tight right now. My Dad thinks he can get work hook ups but I’ll probably wait until the thing completely keels over. It’s just so… Immobile.
That is all sorry for my angsty bitch mode rant