Doubt The Rabbit
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- Joined
- Oct 11, 2010
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For anyone who didn't know (not that everyone really needs to...), I have spent the past month-and-three-weeks sharing a hospital room with my mother as we watched over my sister entered an episode that we, at the time, believed was her end of life stage.
Somehow or another, she didn't die... We have had lots of struggles in the hospital to keep her alive, mainly with the doctors trying to cut her off her G-tube feeds, ultimately starving her to death, but it's all over now. She's back at "home" with her usual routine.
Except it's not home, it's not "usual", and it's totally out of any routine I've been in.
My mother, on impulse, decided to sell our house and buy a smaller one when she thought my sister was going to die. She claimed she was "Letting Go" when really she was running away. A person who has let go can comfortably enter the room where their loved one used to live without sadness or regret. She simply can't do that. On the would-be day of my sister's death, she couldn't even hold the girl until I pep-talked her.
Not that I find anything wrong with it, in fact I don't really care how she would have chosen to deal with this, but I would like to make certain the correct label is being placed on her actions. She has not let go of anything. She is running away.
Everything was looking up in the hospital, I suppose. We had found a new house. Then, a bigger house, when we learned that my sister wouldn't be dying just yet. All that was fantastic, at least, until the sale of our house fell through and we were outbid on the new house. Then we learned we were being kicked out of the hospital in a week. Then my mother decides to tell me that she's dating someone. Also, they're getting married. Also, we're going to be living in her new fiancee's house until he sells it and we can buy a bigger house. Also, he's going to be living with us in the bigger house, too.
"Ok," I said. That seems to be my standard answer for her these days. Ok. See, our household is actually a hierarchy. One knows better than to be discordant with the queen's plans. Not that I really cared. All our stuff was moved out of the old house, anyway, and my mom refused to drive within a five minute radius of our neighborhood, let alone move back in to the house. So, here we are, in our new "home," getting settled in, getting ready for a wedding, getting ready to sell the house, and all of it is getting on my nerves.
I don't want to be here. This is not my home. This is not my routine. I am not used to sticky kitchen floors and knocking on some man's door just to get the cart in which only a few of my clothes have been folded up because my mother couldn't be arsed to stick my clothes in a load while I was at the hospital, staying up for two days straight taking care of my sister while she slept soundly in her new hubby's bed. I am not used to bathroom doors that don't even close all the way, and slip open when I am not looking. I am not used to typing on my computer at a dining room table covered with sticky, itchy plastic. I am not used to having no room to seclude myself in. I had to sleep on his mother's deathbed last night, for fresia's sake.
But it's okay for everyone else. So it's okay all around, right? I don't want to be the ungrateful wretch who wanted to ruin this man's good will. I mean, I'm grateful, really, but I don't want to live here. I barely want to live with my own family. I certainly don't want to adjust to the schedule and comfort of some man who I have only met less than a month ago.
There is a lovely bathroom in the basement where, after I've spent the night searching for a dress to wear to the wedding (I HATE dresses) and realizing how fat and ugly I'll look in every single one, I go to cry. Not that anyone gives a fresia what I think.
But hey, a day in the life of living in the Queen's court.
Somehow or another, she didn't die... We have had lots of struggles in the hospital to keep her alive, mainly with the doctors trying to cut her off her G-tube feeds, ultimately starving her to death, but it's all over now. She's back at "home" with her usual routine.
Except it's not home, it's not "usual", and it's totally out of any routine I've been in.
My mother, on impulse, decided to sell our house and buy a smaller one when she thought my sister was going to die. She claimed she was "Letting Go" when really she was running away. A person who has let go can comfortably enter the room where their loved one used to live without sadness or regret. She simply can't do that. On the would-be day of my sister's death, she couldn't even hold the girl until I pep-talked her.
Not that I find anything wrong with it, in fact I don't really care how she would have chosen to deal with this, but I would like to make certain the correct label is being placed on her actions. She has not let go of anything. She is running away.
Everything was looking up in the hospital, I suppose. We had found a new house. Then, a bigger house, when we learned that my sister wouldn't be dying just yet. All that was fantastic, at least, until the sale of our house fell through and we were outbid on the new house. Then we learned we were being kicked out of the hospital in a week. Then my mother decides to tell me that she's dating someone. Also, they're getting married. Also, we're going to be living in her new fiancee's house until he sells it and we can buy a bigger house. Also, he's going to be living with us in the bigger house, too.
"Ok," I said. That seems to be my standard answer for her these days. Ok. See, our household is actually a hierarchy. One knows better than to be discordant with the queen's plans. Not that I really cared. All our stuff was moved out of the old house, anyway, and my mom refused to drive within a five minute radius of our neighborhood, let alone move back in to the house. So, here we are, in our new "home," getting settled in, getting ready for a wedding, getting ready to sell the house, and all of it is getting on my nerves.
I don't want to be here. This is not my home. This is not my routine. I am not used to sticky kitchen floors and knocking on some man's door just to get the cart in which only a few of my clothes have been folded up because my mother couldn't be arsed to stick my clothes in a load while I was at the hospital, staying up for two days straight taking care of my sister while she slept soundly in her new hubby's bed. I am not used to bathroom doors that don't even close all the way, and slip open when I am not looking. I am not used to typing on my computer at a dining room table covered with sticky, itchy plastic. I am not used to having no room to seclude myself in. I had to sleep on his mother's deathbed last night, for fresia's sake.
But it's okay for everyone else. So it's okay all around, right? I don't want to be the ungrateful wretch who wanted to ruin this man's good will. I mean, I'm grateful, really, but I don't want to live here. I barely want to live with my own family. I certainly don't want to adjust to the schedule and comfort of some man who I have only met less than a month ago.
There is a lovely bathroom in the basement where, after I've spent the night searching for a dress to wear to the wedding (I HATE dresses) and realizing how fat and ugly I'll look in every single one, I go to cry. Not that anyone gives a fresia what I think.
But hey, a day in the life of living in the Queen's court.