Michael and I drove down to Naptown on Friday afternoon...Five hours of the most boring landscape on the planet. We reached our "3 Star" hotel, exhausted. I hop into bed and notice the "comforter" had no duvet, and had. Um. Stains. I KNOW! So I called the front desk to ask for a clean one. The clerk says he is the only employee on duty, and we will have to come down to the front desk and retrieve one. So Michael, agrees to get dressed, goes down to the desk on the first floor with amazingly slow elevator. He comes back with a nicely folded duvet. After we unfold it, we quickly noticed that it is dripping wet. Sigh. So back down to the desk to try again. Michael is told that it is "Marriott Policy" (Did I spell that right?) to take the comforters out of the dryer while they are still wet, so that they won't wrinkle...OKAY! Even though the sheet on the bed is so wrinkled it looks as if the sheets haven't been changed in weeks. Ew again. I wanted to take a short swim before bed...go down to the pool. and it is so small, It would take two strokes...maybe less, to swim from end to end. AND it was filled with children. Ew. I love kids. I do. But when you put dozens of children in a pool, there will be pee. Lots of pee. So. I give up, return to our room, and try to sleep on the hardest mattress known to mankind. I moved to the tiny little sofa (which was actually softer than the bed. Can't sleep there either. Finally, I go back to the "Queen-sized bed) Riiiight, and eventually dozed off. I am going to have fun reviewing this place!
The next day, we woke up, went out for breakfast. Fairly decent little place. Since our appointment with Mr. Asshole Lawyer at the family home isn't until 2 PM, we have some time to kill. We drove down to IMA (Indpls. Museum of Art) where I worked for a year or so, as Assistant Curator of the Slide Department and Events Photographer, when I was 20 something. I showed Michael my old secret haunts on the grounds and trails of the Lilly property. It brought back some pretty nice memories, with the exception of the acrid and familiar Naptown smell.
We made it to the house 15 minutes before Mr. Asshole Lawyer. I took some outdoor photos for my kids. What seemed like such a large property to me, as a child seemed so. Tiny. When we are let into the house by Mr. AHL (My brother refused me unsupervised entrance, since he is an AHMD, with serious issues.) While there, I notice the house has been absolutely looted! Missing silver, missing china, missing rocking chair, familiar things missing throughout the house. Now. My mother specifically stated in her will that there was to be a lottery on all household items. In order to do that, however, my two "sisters", "brother", and I have to agree to this form of disbursement. Everyone (except me) wanted to liquidate all items in the house, some of which have been in the family for generations. At least. I balk at signing off on the lottery, so Mr. AHL calls my "brother" and asks what I can take. I asked to speak to my brother personally. He refused. He would not even speak to me with his AHL in the room. I was informed that I would not be allowed to leave the home with ANYTHING, unless I agreed to sign. All of my artwork was left to me by my mother in the Codicil of the will, which means it was not a part of the estate. The AHL REFUSED to allow me to take it, or anything else, even that which was marked with my name by my mother. Mr. AHL actually went throught EVERY piece of art I had since age 7, asking me to "describe" each piece. Finally, I just caved. My AHMD brother "allowed" me to take two tables, a lamp, and a silver-plated candy dish. Nothing I wanted was worth much at all. To me, it was simply tangible memories.
Flashback: My mother was due to have surgery. I promised her I would call and check on her progress after the procedure. However, due to HIPAA laws, the nurses could tell me absolutely nothing. I needed to have the "Code Word" in order for them to speak to me. Eventually, I get an emotionless call from my AHMD sister who told me my mother was "stable". I asked her for the Code. Her response: "NO. I'm not going to give it to you. I'm not going to give you what you want!" Of course the first words to come out of MY mouth was: "You BITCH!" After that she continually sent text messages to my husband, the "rational" one. Finally, he diplomatically told her not to contact him again. I read all of her posts. Unbelievable. She claimed that several years ago, I posted something online somewhere that impugned her abilities as an MD. Apparently, she has a spy who lives in the A2 area, who has nothing better to do than to read posts, she ASSUMES to be mine, and report back to my AHMD sister. Fracking crazy. I have NO idea what type of abilities, or lack thereof, that my "sister" possesses. Even if I had posted something like that, I would certainly never use her name. That is just not something I would do. In other words, it didn't happen. She was merely "playing" my husband. It didn't work. He didn't believe her. *Note to AHSPY out there, it won't be necessary to report this post back to my AHMD sister. I will send her the link.*
My other sister, who is actually NOT an AH, called and tried to convince me, diplomatically, to sign off on the lottery. After our brief conversation, the sister I once cared deeply about, and travelled halfway across the country to attend the funeral of her wonderful husband, even though, I could not afford it financially, ended our conversation with "Take Care." I responded with "I love you." She hung up.
I know. Stupid, unbelievable family drama, and completely unnecessary.
One thing I do know, is that people who recognize that they have a problem, and seek help, are not "crazy". It is they who do NOT believe they have a problem, who are truly sick.
Moral of this sad, but true tale: None.
Forgive me for this rant, my friends.
.
Saturday, March 29, 2014
Saturday, March 15, 2014
Eulogy for my Mom
Eulogy for my Mother
My Mom was a child of The Great Depression. It shaped her life. Her people were potato famine Irish...drinkers and jokesters...shanty Irish. Impoverished and proud. They were strong, resilient people. She was definitely one strong woman.
She and my father were the Mad (Wo)Men in their time...heavy smokers, and heavy drinkers. I was the second born of four children and the oldest girl. My Mom told me recently, before she died, that I was absolutely fearless. About everything. She found me, more than once, sitting on the roof of the house, with my feet hanging over the edge at age four. I was the kid who was the "handful".
At an early point in my childhood, my father began molesting me regularly. It started at about age six, and ended at age thirteen. During this time, he was a raging alcoholic, and could no longer hold down a job. The bitter battles between my Father and Mother were endless.
Eventually, my Mom went to work, teaching First graders, and became the sole support of the family. It became my responsibility to babysit for my younger two sisters until she got home from work. She was a bitter, difficult woman during that time. I hated her. I simply did not have the maturity to understand the toll that this took on her physically and psychologically. She was not there for me in a warm, motherly sense, in any way. I was chided for every grade I received that was not an "A". I was never good enough. Her aspirations for me were dependent on my looks. I was the "pretty" one. She had dreams of me becoming an actress, a news anchor, or a model. I did model for a while in High School and beyond, but she rarely came to my shows. Not being a "Hands on" Mom, she did not teach me the skills I would need as I was growing up. Instead, she sent me to lessons...on EVERYTHING! I took swim lessons, and swam on the local team. I learned, ballet, acrobatics, and tap dancing. She sent me to cooking school, sewing lessons, riding lessons, ballroom dancing, Oil painting and drawing lessons, and, yes, even "charm" school. I didn't appreciate her at all during this time. She was so harsh, so mean.
After I left home for college at IU/Bloomington, I never really looked back. I was so happy to be out of that house that I cried tears of joy that first night in my dorm room. For many years we were estranged. We did not agree about anything...not religion, politics, or the role of women in society. When I finally told her about the childhood sexual abuse at the hands of my own father when I was in my 30s, she denied that it even happened. (Although, on some level, I always thought she knew.) My own brother and sisters turned bitterly against me.
We reconciled about five years ago. I had finally come to recognize, and understand her struggles, and her strength. I know now, that she struggled to pay for all of those lessons I received as a child. In the last few years of her life, as she slowly lost her memory to Alzheimer's Disease, I spoke with her several times a week. We chatted about the happy times in my childhood...the summer days spent at our swim club all day, with a trip to the public library afterward. I enjoyed these chats, and I believe she did, as well. We laughed, and rekindled our relationship.
As an adult, I now understand that I owe her. She was responsible for my success, and continuing love of swimming, my passion for horses, and my skills as an artist. She did that for me. She made me the woman I am today. She was, at heart, a good woman.
She died, suddenly, after an ill-advised heart surgery several weeks ago. I promised beforehand that I would call her after her surgery to check on her progress. When I tried to do so, the nurses could not release any information to me due to current HIPAA laws. I was told I would need a passcode. My youngest, sister, a Scottsdale area Pediatrician, who was there at the time, refused to give me that passcode. After she had recovered sufficiently to "talk", I called her and spoke with her on several occasions. She sounded as if she'd had a stroke. She was barely able to mumble a few words, but she did remember me. I am grateful for that. The last time I spoke with her, I told her over and over again, how much I loved her. Several hours later, my other sister, called to tell me that our Mother had passed. She went into septic shock after a urinary tract infection, that her body could not fight.
I grieve for my Mom. I also grieve for the fact that I was too young and stupid to recognize her for the strong, independent woman that she was. Though our differences were great, I loved her nevertheless, and she loved me. She was my Mom. I will think of her every day for the rest of my life.
My Mom was a child of The Great Depression. It shaped her life. Her people were potato famine Irish...drinkers and jokesters...shanty Irish. Impoverished and proud. They were strong, resilient people. She was definitely one strong woman.
She and my father were the Mad (Wo)Men in their time...heavy smokers, and heavy drinkers. I was the second born of four children and the oldest girl. My Mom told me recently, before she died, that I was absolutely fearless. About everything. She found me, more than once, sitting on the roof of the house, with my feet hanging over the edge at age four. I was the kid who was the "handful".
At an early point in my childhood, my father began molesting me regularly. It started at about age six, and ended at age thirteen. During this time, he was a raging alcoholic, and could no longer hold down a job. The bitter battles between my Father and Mother were endless.
Eventually, my Mom went to work, teaching First graders, and became the sole support of the family. It became my responsibility to babysit for my younger two sisters until she got home from work. She was a bitter, difficult woman during that time. I hated her. I simply did not have the maturity to understand the toll that this took on her physically and psychologically. She was not there for me in a warm, motherly sense, in any way. I was chided for every grade I received that was not an "A". I was never good enough. Her aspirations for me were dependent on my looks. I was the "pretty" one. She had dreams of me becoming an actress, a news anchor, or a model. I did model for a while in High School and beyond, but she rarely came to my shows. Not being a "Hands on" Mom, she did not teach me the skills I would need as I was growing up. Instead, she sent me to lessons...on EVERYTHING! I took swim lessons, and swam on the local team. I learned, ballet, acrobatics, and tap dancing. She sent me to cooking school, sewing lessons, riding lessons, ballroom dancing, Oil painting and drawing lessons, and, yes, even "charm" school. I didn't appreciate her at all during this time. She was so harsh, so mean.
After I left home for college at IU/Bloomington, I never really looked back. I was so happy to be out of that house that I cried tears of joy that first night in my dorm room. For many years we were estranged. We did not agree about anything...not religion, politics, or the role of women in society. When I finally told her about the childhood sexual abuse at the hands of my own father when I was in my 30s, she denied that it even happened. (Although, on some level, I always thought she knew.) My own brother and sisters turned bitterly against me.
We reconciled about five years ago. I had finally come to recognize, and understand her struggles, and her strength. I know now, that she struggled to pay for all of those lessons I received as a child. In the last few years of her life, as she slowly lost her memory to Alzheimer's Disease, I spoke with her several times a week. We chatted about the happy times in my childhood...the summer days spent at our swim club all day, with a trip to the public library afterward. I enjoyed these chats, and I believe she did, as well. We laughed, and rekindled our relationship.
As an adult, I now understand that I owe her. She was responsible for my success, and continuing love of swimming, my passion for horses, and my skills as an artist. She did that for me. She made me the woman I am today. She was, at heart, a good woman.
She died, suddenly, after an ill-advised heart surgery several weeks ago. I promised beforehand that I would call her after her surgery to check on her progress. When I tried to do so, the nurses could not release any information to me due to current HIPAA laws. I was told I would need a passcode. My youngest, sister, a Scottsdale area Pediatrician, who was there at the time, refused to give me that passcode. After she had recovered sufficiently to "talk", I called her and spoke with her on several occasions. She sounded as if she'd had a stroke. She was barely able to mumble a few words, but she did remember me. I am grateful for that. The last time I spoke with her, I told her over and over again, how much I loved her. Several hours later, my other sister, called to tell me that our Mother had passed. She went into septic shock after a urinary tract infection, that her body could not fight.
I grieve for my Mom. I also grieve for the fact that I was too young and stupid to recognize her for the strong, independent woman that she was. Though our differences were great, I loved her nevertheless, and she loved me. She was my Mom. I will think of her every day for the rest of my life.
Monday, March 3, 2014
Mother Nature
Dear Mother Nature. I love you. I really do. You provide us with the sustenance that keeps us alive, the natural beauty that surrounds us, the sun that warms the earth. I respect you for that. I do. Please note, that I can't speak for everyone on this matter...only myself. But. We have had enough arctic temperatures and snow on this planet. Please go easier on us. Don't get me wrong. I do love the snow, and the cold...to a point. But, this year you've outdone yourself. Please turn some of that snow into rain and drench the western part of this country. Their drought is horrendous. Okay. I know we haven't been behaving ourselves over the past thousand years or so, so I'm guessing this is payback for all of our polluting ways, our wanton acts of destruction on this beautiful planet, and our complete disregard for your beautiful work. I, myself, am SO sorry. I'm trying to change, and do the right thing. However, the powers-that-be, worldwide do not wish to cooperate. I write letters, call my lawmakers, sign petitions, and try to live with the smallest possible carbon footprint. But. That is hard without the help of all of the inhabitants of this country and the planet. I understand your frustration. I really don't blame you. I believe change will come. It is taking the moronic humans on this planet a long time to figure out that we've screwed up. I know this apology is lame, given the magnitude of your suffering, but please. Thirty-two degrees would be nice right now. Rain in areas plagued with drought would adore some precipitation. Again. I'm sorry. Forgive me.