Hurt People Hurt People

I have started this particular post countless times. Who knows when I'll find it complete enough to actually publish. I'm usually good at communicating. It comes natural, words flow freely, I feel better being transparent than I do keeping things inside. Except for this. But here goes...


I miss my father. I can't go a day without thinking of him, and I don't want to. I remember looking for him when I gave his eulogy. I remember that feeling of being somewhere significant (his funeral/memorial), where he was supposed to be with me, and I remember the feeling of waiting for his arm to come around me, or for him to turn the corner and find a seat next to my mom. It never happened and I was alone - trying to muster the strength to honor him appropriately at his memorial.  We had an unspoken bond. I felt I could hear him and communicate with him just in my thoughts sometimes.  I talked to him a lot in my mind as well as in his ear during his last days on earth. I knew he could hear me. We trusted one another. We KNEW one another and we LOVED one another.


So I have to say - it cuts pretty deep when that relationship is challenged, when it is mocked, when the words you threw up over and cried over that were painstakingly poured into his eulogy were laughed at. This happened to me. It continues to happen to me. I am told repeatedly by the same offender that my relationship with my father was for show - that I quit my job as a matter of convenience for myself (it's true, it was not the best job I've ever had, but I would have stayed because all of our family insurance was tied up in my position, and there were some really nice benefits) and it had nothing to do with truly wanting to be there for my dad.


It cuts even deeper when all the memories I have working side-by-side with my father on my houses in Rock Hill and in Beaufort (he was a carpenter and COULD NOT and would not sit still, and he didn't visit unless he could work on something with us because it was just who he was) are diminished by accusations that I overworked an aging man and never let him rest. That I was potentially the reason for his stress in his last years. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is not true. But it still hurts, and the person who accuses me of this knows it well and keeps this weapon sharpened.


There was no greater feeling of panic and defeat than the day my father collapsed. It was a day my offender will use against me for the rest of my life. It was October of 2014. My dad was in his second round of chemo for recurring lung cancer. He was doing far better than any had expected, especially with the cancer returning just after being cleared of it 85 days prior. During this time my father told me that he had a window for me...a window he saw going in my front living room...and it was not negotiable. He was proud of this window - he helped a neighbor with some woodwork a year prior, and when the neighbor offered to compensate him, my dad said " hey  - you gonna use that window?"  End of story. I knew in my heart that it was important to him that I have this window installed. He kept pushing us to get it done and we kept ignoring it, until my dad got very upset with us and said he wanted it done while he felt decent enough to be part of the install. We were the labor and he was always the brains behind it. I could see he was not very strong and was trying to check this off his list, so my husband and I came up with a plan to get it done very early in the morning, before even my dad would ever expect to come over. We did just that.


 About 9 a.m. my father called and asked if we were still planning to install the window that day. I knew something was wrong when he asked that because he was the one who pushed it until we scheduled it. I told him we were and were doing fine and not to worry. He said he would be right over when I suggested he stay home. The fact that he wasn't at my house at 7 a.m. told me he was worn. I felt a knot in my stomach at the sound of his voice - he sounded like he was a tired man trying to convince himself that he should come over. I recall saying a prayer and watching the road for his truck.


When he arrived I could see this vacant look in his eyes and when I introduced him to our friend who "just happened" to stop by (read: served as the brains and we served as the labor so dad didn't have to lift a finger), my dad gave him a weak handshake and hardly looked at him. He was almost rude to him.I knew something was way off. I stood at my dad's truck and saw that he somehow mustered the strength to load sheetrock and a bucket of tools onto it before coming over. As I was contemplating how he managed to do this (and why - because we had all the material already), something told me to look up. As I did, I heard our friend say "Looks good, doesn't it?" My dad had a half smile, leaned against the house a bit to look in to see the window and then I saw his fingers. They were gripping the window sill and were white. He began to sink. I began to run. I could hear, "Hey man, you ok? you Ok?" and I got to my dad and caught him under his arms and laid him back against my chest and lowered him to the ground. My oldest son was there. I yelled for him to go get my husband, who was in the back yard. So many thoughts were going through my head, but mostly I was terrified. I'd never seen my father this way. I've never caught my father before. My father has never needed anyone before. Was he dead? Was I breathing? Was he breathing?


My dad came to pretty quickly and I was trying to be very calm. My father did NOT like attention. I told him he fainted and fell and he refused to believe it. I helped him up and he looked dazed. He refused to talk about it. I barely had the voice to tell him to sit down because I was trying so hard not to cry. My mother was home sick and certainly was not able to drive herself over. She could barely talk on the phone due to yet another migraine. It was up to me to figure out what to do. My father piddled around the yard, looking gray and unstable. I called 911 and they were there in seconds. Actually, a very loud fire truck arrived. My father looked at me with such distaste and said "You didn't...you called them?" I could feel his frustration and his thoughts that I betrayed him by calling for help. I cried and apologized all at the same time.


They checked him out and encouraged him to let them take him in. He was a man in need of medical help. My father refused their services and simply said, "I'm working here and I'm going to finish this job." I knew there was nothing I could do - except never leave his side. Ever. Later that afternoon he called me and I was in the grocery store. As soon as I said hello his voice cracked and I began to sob like a little child in the middle of the aisle. He said, "You're not gonna make your daddy cry, are you?" All I remember saying was, " I love you so much daddy. It scared me so much."


Now my accuser, he stopped by that morning too - because I called him in a panic about our father and thought he should know. He came over and stayed a few minutes, checked my dad out, and sent me an icy glare. Once again he thought I did this - that I worked my dad to the point of exhaustion. There was nothing I could say except the truth. We did it ourselves, he showed up anyway, and collapsed before picking up one tool. It fell on deaf ears, as does everything I say to this person.


There's so much to say...but it's not the time.  There are so many stories...but it still hurts too much. I can still smell his coffee and the burned toast I coaxed him into eating after he collapsed that morning. He admitted to not eating for two days and only drinking coffee - his way of warding off the chemo sickness. It wasn't smart and certainly not effective, but it was my dad's way.


For the rest of my dad's battle, I met him at every chemo appointment as usual, every radiation appointment, and when he lost most of his hearing, took over making his appointments and speaking to his doctors for him. He was simply along for the ride at this point. He was going to do his best but was no longer up for the particulars unless absolutely necessary. My accuser says my dad never wanted me there, that I used it as an excuse not to work. The first time he told me I was stunned, the 10th time he told me that, I was numb.


These accusations - of being a "hero for doing nothing", "OCD and a control freak", "and a little girl who made her father work and suffer" - they cut me wide open. No, I don't believe them. No, my dad didn't think that of me. My father was who he was - he was a hard working man who loved his kids and who loved to build and work and repair. He didn't socialize or go to events. Working alongside his kids was his outlet. I knew that and know that. I NEVER asked him for help with anything when he was sick. I rarely asked for his help when he was healthy because I knew he'd jump all over it and make us give up many weekends to do the work ourselves, and we honestly could hardly keep up with my dad.  If my father worked at my house, I paid for everything and worked with him, side by side.


I am continually told that I don't matter, that my life means nothing now that I am not working, and that anyone in my position not to have to work would do the same for their parents. What's missing from this story is the fact that beyond a shadow of a doubt, God told me to do that. He asked me to jump and to trust Him that He would provide for our family. One day I was responsible for bringing in 50% of our income and the next day I quit my job - with two kids to help provide for. I could not get away from it - I wanted nothing more than to be with my dad but the numbers didn't add up. All I can say is that God came up with some new math and I never looked back. One day I'll write down the story of how it all shook out, but it's pretty amazing to look back and see where He asked me to jump and trust and if it weren't my dad at stake, I probably wouldn't have. I guess God knew that too.


Through all of the hurt, the accusations, the malicious behavior and the verbal attacks, one things rings true. Hurt people hurt people. Tonight I will lift all of this hurt to the heavens to both of my fathers who reside there.

Please be Neat and ...

...WIPE THE SEAT!


It's really all that I ask at this point in my life. Wipe the seat. Maybe even flush the toilet. If you're feeling especially kind, perhaps pick your dirty clothes up off the floor.


Why are these things so hard for boys/kids? It blows my mind. If I could stop thinking about the urine on the toilet seat, the back of the toilet seat, the toilet lid, the floor surrounding the toilet...I would. But then, when I am not thinking and accidentally sit on it, my inner ferocious lion comes and I start throwing things. Well, not really...because that would make a mess I would inevitably clean up. Instead I wipe my angry tears...and the toilet seat. So gross. The list goes on, literally. I made one:


Hygiene:
When my kids are at school, I miss them. I pray for them. I cheer them on in all of their endeavors. I think they are the greatest little men...but for goodness sake - could they brush their teeth without me asking 10 x (read SCREAMING)? Could they trim their fingernails and toenails before they collect enough dirt to fill my baby twins' sandbox? Yuck. I almost didn't type that.


Stuff:
Let's talk about their random need to play with random stuff. Like tape. They like it. They tape #$%* together all the time. They randomly decorate our home with tape. They find all kinds of tape...painters tape, electrical tape, duct tape. It's used for everything...and then when it's not, it's balled up and left everywhere - until I once again ask nicely (read SCREAM) for the random tape balls to be picked up and thrown away. You know what's funny about all this? We never have tape when we begin a paint project, or something needs to ACTUALLY be held together. Sigh.


Bedding:
Blankets. Pillows. More blankets. More pillows. Are they on their beds? I'm not even suggesting a made bed...I'm just suggesting they are in the vicinity of the bed. Nope - almost every pillow and blanket in the house is on top of their little smelly bodies on the couch...which happens to be in the center of the house...where they can be seen by me all day long. The center of the house is where I like to keep the order...because they have ROOMS for the clutter. Their very own rooms with their very own cluttery crap.


Bodily functions:
I almost can't go here. But I'm going to. I feed my children well. Why then, are their bodily functions so toxic? The other morning, my oldest passed gas so badly in the car that it hit my gag reflex big time and I stopped my van in front of my house (we just pulled out to school) and darted into the house to throw up! I'm not kidding. That sounds extreme. It's the truth. It was extremely disgusting.  He was incredibly apologetic, but all I could do was take him to school with the windows down while holding a bottle of my favorite essential oil under my nose. I'm wondering if he needs a cleanse...for real...


Ok, ok...this may sound like I'm ready to send them off to the circus. I think they'd fit in well - especially with all the jumping and human trickery and, well, smells...    The truth is they are also so kind. So gentle. So loving. They are so interesting, so interested in life...I see their light bulbs shining bright when they talk about what they learned at school, what their teachers said, what fun things their friends did with them at recess. My boys are disgusting, but they are also amazing. I need to think about that one for a while. Amazing and disgusting or amazingly disgusting? I think it's different each day.


For now, I will continue to be the enforcer of the rules, of the cleaning of their rooms, of the picking up of the pillows and blankets, of the proper use of tape, and I will, for the LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY, continue to make them BE NEAT AND WIPE THE SEAT.