I have a post about Facebook nearly ready to go: this isn’t that one. This is also written in the app, so the potential for massive numbers of errors is making me anxious.
I’m sorry in advance for those that will inevitably show up. When I win the lottery, I’m renewing my subscription to Grammarly.
I’m sorry too to the people I follow and normally interact with. I’ve not been doing a good job of being present. I have a narrowed focus these days. I’m reading what you write, mostly, I just don’t have much energy when it comes to things to say.
I’ve not done a large number of posts about my mother’s stage 4 lung cancer, either. I haven’t written about the side effects of the chemo that’s supposed to buy time.
I didn’t write about what it was like to go to my parents and have to work out how to get my mother off the floor. One of the side effects of the drug regimen is a complete albeit periodic loss of muscle control.
My dad couldn’t help because he’s in congestive heart failure. He’s back in the hospital again, in fact. I was in emergency with him until the wee hours, only to awaken to numerous missed calls. He was trying to leave against medical advice.
I forgot to tell them he’s also been diagnosed with dementia.
This is why I don’t write about these things. The screen is hard to see when tears are falling and I don’t have time for that right now.
I’m possibly lonely – it’s hard to tell.
I could reach out to my friends, I suppose. I could reach out to my siblings. But they’ve shown time and again that they’re unwilling to exercise much effort when it comes to me unless I do the running. That’s how the relationships are structured and they don’t like the changes.
They expect me to change back.
They expect me to dump the boundaries. Lest you think I’m imagining that, one said it to me. As in, “I don’t think you need boundaries.” They were trying to change my mind on a “no.”
I find I’m unwilling. Tempted, but unwilling, though I struggle with the idea that by not changing back and becoming who I was, I’m being vindictive and small.
I hear my therapist in my head, asking questions. Do they know your parents are really ill? Do they know you’re close to your parents? Have you talked to them about how hard this is for you? Did you reach out to them when they were going through hard times?
The answer to all of the above is yes. I can, however, be too much, some of the time.
It’s possible there’s a middle ground. I don’t know if I’m interested in that either. I might have had my fill of compromise.
I know how this journey with my parents ends. I mean, life always ends with death, but I was hoping my parents’ deaths were going to be of the far-in-the-future variety, and who the hell is cutting onions?
Every day is something hard and awful. Finding care to help me give care. Convincing them that help is needed. Having to have the same horrible conversations with my dad because he’s not adding new memories very well.
Even non-horrible conversations bring grief. The same story for the thirteenth time that he’s thrilled to tell, so why would you harm that, but it’s hard.
Then there’s the one I had with my mother about not wanting to live life if it’s going to be this way. I remind myself, over and over, to hold space and listen, hold space and listen.
Some might say that dropping Facebook at this time is wrong. I worry that it’s passive-aggressive. Except, I don’t get comfort from it, I don’t interact via it, and I gave everyone a heads up I was going. Those people I got contact information from. Here come letters.
I feel better.
That Facebook post is definitely coming.