Hey All,
I really need help from you folks.
I joined this forum because of the complex trauma I experienced growing up in my family of origin where there was such an unfair portion of shit that I had to experience where my two siblings just did not, or even if they did, are not willing to ever acknowledge. I am sure that if my brother and sister don't ever touch on the shit that I remember, if's because they had allies in extended family members that I never did. My god was my childhood devoid of this! Not a supportive or safe grandmother, grandfather, aunt, uncle, cousin, no one!
Okay, so here's what's going on.
On 3/2/2023, my dad died. He was 91 years old, with dementia, congestive heart failure, kidney failure, prostate cancer, kidney cancer...it was just time. I say this as honestly as I can. The man prided himself on being able to hike, read, participate in conversations, belong to his book group and work, all of which he could no longer do anymore. I know that he was sad and depressed because of this. While I live in GA and my family of origin lives in CA, I would see him when I would travel out with my husband and two daughters, about once or twice per year. It was so evident with each visit that his various health issues were more and more pronounced. He died in his sleep. The night before he died, I was told by his caretaker that my dad, while she was getting him ready for bed, he kept telling her that the light in his eye was bright, but that his father was there in the room with him. He was insistent about this. His caretaker f*cked with the blinds, the lamp, the everything in that room, but my dad kept telling her there was a light shining in his face and that his father was there. The next day, she checked on him and he was dead. There were no looks of pain on his face. He just looked like he was sleeping. I feel like this is the way we all hope for, right?
Anyhow, I am now sitting here in a cousin's guest house, typing this entry and trying to process what my experience burying a parent has been like. Yesterday, we all sat around my mother's apartment, sharing stories with the rabbi who is going to officiate at the funeral tomorrow (Monday). When they wheeled my mother into the room, she is collapsed in her wheelchair, saying over and over..."I want B_______! I want my B______!. I can't live without him!" The truth? My mother is riddled with narcissism and histrionics, has been all my 58 years, and over the last three years, treated my dad like an inconvenience to her demands and needs. The idea of ever so much as being willing to get her ass into her own wheelchair and visit him in his bedroom? Never. Being willing to NOT say "your father is crazy!" when he would be sundowning? Never! The idea of her ever giving the Alzheimer's Association Support Line a call to help her deal with his rapid cognitive decline? Never. No, my mother would lie in her bed, pissing into a diaper, dragging every bit of attention and sympathy from those that would play into her shit, and never once think about anyone else. I mean Jesus, my dad, until his mid 80's, would be working as a relief pharmacist, just so he could get out of the house. When I would ask her why he was working, her answer never wavered: "Well, he's got an expensive wife." For years, when my dad would ask her to support selling their home to move into something without all the square footage to keep up, she would refuse. To sell the house with the winding staircase they had to climb, she would refuse. To make it less of an albatross for my dad to have to take care of, she would refuse. In conversations with him, he didn't even WANT that big a home in the first place, but my mother did.
As the rabbi went around the room, asking all of us to share our memories, I just thought I would keep my mouth pretty much shut and let my siblings paint the Norman Rockwell picture that needed to be painted. That was not the time nor the place to talk about the shit that drove me into the trauma that I experienced at their hands and words. My mother has forever been all about surface. What went on inside of the family home, she would never let the outside world be privy to. I would walk the aisles of the family business as a teenager, staring at all of the boxes of sleeping pills on the shelf, tempted to take them. I guess my innate stubbornness or desire that someday I would find my best self kept me from taking a box of them home with me. I ended up with an eating disorder at 18 years of age that lasted until I was about 24. This isn't a surprise to me that I had one. Every so often, my brother and sister (I am the youngest of three) would throw me a bone and look at me with the "well, let's hear YOUR glowing memories of Dad." I think I mentioned so little, and let them carry the proverbial ball because to do otherwise would have made this conversation so unbearable. I just couldn't do it. All I did was "yeah, they pretty much covered everything..."
Tomorrow is the funeral. As far as I can see, what I saw from my mother yesterday is going to be tenfold tomorrow. I imagine her howling, sobbing, screaming, even threatening to jump into the grave after him. It. Will. Be. Awful. While everyone there will be feeling such pain over this woman's pai and anguish, I will be feeling a completely different set of feelings, none of them sympathetic.
As I type this, I feel guilty. Like someone is going to read this and think I am just an awful person for writing it. But I really hope that there will be one of you who can relate to this. I don't really have any ideas for coping tools for how to deal with tomorrow. I really need something that can help me get through this.
Thank you for reading.
Caligal
I really need help from you folks.
I joined this forum because of the complex trauma I experienced growing up in my family of origin where there was such an unfair portion of shit that I had to experience where my two siblings just did not, or even if they did, are not willing to ever acknowledge. I am sure that if my brother and sister don't ever touch on the shit that I remember, if's because they had allies in extended family members that I never did. My god was my childhood devoid of this! Not a supportive or safe grandmother, grandfather, aunt, uncle, cousin, no one!
Okay, so here's what's going on.
On 3/2/2023, my dad died. He was 91 years old, with dementia, congestive heart failure, kidney failure, prostate cancer, kidney cancer...it was just time. I say this as honestly as I can. The man prided himself on being able to hike, read, participate in conversations, belong to his book group and work, all of which he could no longer do anymore. I know that he was sad and depressed because of this. While I live in GA and my family of origin lives in CA, I would see him when I would travel out with my husband and two daughters, about once or twice per year. It was so evident with each visit that his various health issues were more and more pronounced. He died in his sleep. The night before he died, I was told by his caretaker that my dad, while she was getting him ready for bed, he kept telling her that the light in his eye was bright, but that his father was there in the room with him. He was insistent about this. His caretaker f*cked with the blinds, the lamp, the everything in that room, but my dad kept telling her there was a light shining in his face and that his father was there. The next day, she checked on him and he was dead. There were no looks of pain on his face. He just looked like he was sleeping. I feel like this is the way we all hope for, right?
Anyhow, I am now sitting here in a cousin's guest house, typing this entry and trying to process what my experience burying a parent has been like. Yesterday, we all sat around my mother's apartment, sharing stories with the rabbi who is going to officiate at the funeral tomorrow (Monday). When they wheeled my mother into the room, she is collapsed in her wheelchair, saying over and over..."I want B_______! I want my B______!. I can't live without him!" The truth? My mother is riddled with narcissism and histrionics, has been all my 58 years, and over the last three years, treated my dad like an inconvenience to her demands and needs. The idea of ever so much as being willing to get her ass into her own wheelchair and visit him in his bedroom? Never. Being willing to NOT say "your father is crazy!" when he would be sundowning? Never! The idea of her ever giving the Alzheimer's Association Support Line a call to help her deal with his rapid cognitive decline? Never. No, my mother would lie in her bed, pissing into a diaper, dragging every bit of attention and sympathy from those that would play into her shit, and never once think about anyone else. I mean Jesus, my dad, until his mid 80's, would be working as a relief pharmacist, just so he could get out of the house. When I would ask her why he was working, her answer never wavered: "Well, he's got an expensive wife." For years, when my dad would ask her to support selling their home to move into something without all the square footage to keep up, she would refuse. To sell the house with the winding staircase they had to climb, she would refuse. To make it less of an albatross for my dad to have to take care of, she would refuse. In conversations with him, he didn't even WANT that big a home in the first place, but my mother did.
As the rabbi went around the room, asking all of us to share our memories, I just thought I would keep my mouth pretty much shut and let my siblings paint the Norman Rockwell picture that needed to be painted. That was not the time nor the place to talk about the shit that drove me into the trauma that I experienced at their hands and words. My mother has forever been all about surface. What went on inside of the family home, she would never let the outside world be privy to. I would walk the aisles of the family business as a teenager, staring at all of the boxes of sleeping pills on the shelf, tempted to take them. I guess my innate stubbornness or desire that someday I would find my best self kept me from taking a box of them home with me. I ended up with an eating disorder at 18 years of age that lasted until I was about 24. This isn't a surprise to me that I had one. Every so often, my brother and sister (I am the youngest of three) would throw me a bone and look at me with the "well, let's hear YOUR glowing memories of Dad." I think I mentioned so little, and let them carry the proverbial ball because to do otherwise would have made this conversation so unbearable. I just couldn't do it. All I did was "yeah, they pretty much covered everything..."
Tomorrow is the funeral. As far as I can see, what I saw from my mother yesterday is going to be tenfold tomorrow. I imagine her howling, sobbing, screaming, even threatening to jump into the grave after him. It. Will. Be. Awful. While everyone there will be feeling such pain over this woman's pai and anguish, I will be feeling a completely different set of feelings, none of them sympathetic.
As I type this, I feel guilty. Like someone is going to read this and think I am just an awful person for writing it. But I really hope that there will be one of you who can relate to this. I don't really have any ideas for coping tools for how to deal with tomorrow. I really need something that can help me get through this.
Thank you for reading.
Caligal