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Sunday, August 28, 2011

MOMENTO MORI

I recall the tragic day of 9-11-2001. My father had faded to the point where he seemed only half here, and half some place else. Around 3:00 PM I turned on the television. I was shocked and horrified! We were at war! America was under attack! Who would be foolish enough to attack the United States! I was saddened and sickened. But terrorists didn't frighten me. I was more terrified of losing my father.

Avis had died the month before. Death seemed to be setting the scene for the new decade ahead. During my 50's; long time family friends, acquaintances, and relatives seemed to be dropping left and right.

By my 60th birthday, most of my father's generation were gone. I found many of the so-called "Greatest Generation" to be seriously messed-up adults. At least they were in my family.

Back to 2001. My father's severe stomach pains returned. I gave him a strong narcotic prescribed by his doctor. Soon that wasn't enough. I phoned the doctor and asked if it was time for Hospice. They confirmed what I feared.

I informed Dad that Hospice would be coming. While I was upstairs, I heard him crying in the kitchen. I wanted to go down and comfort him. But I didn't know how. I couldn't say, everything was going to be all right. He was going to die! And nothing could prevent it. And I couldn't tell him, he would be in heaven. Because he didn't believe in heaven. So I just closed my door.

An attractive, smiling, young woman arrived from Hospice . "How long will I be under your care?" was my father's 1st inquiry. She told him there was no set time frame. She then asked to see his bed-quarters.

I had moved his bedroom downstairs into our home office. My father remained in the living room as I led the way. The woman's smile vanished. "He's not ready to hear this," she stated, "but you have to, your father is right at the end. I doubt he will live 3 more days."

I couldn't control my tears, but I muffled my sobs. I thought there would be a little more time. But she seemed certain. I tried to compose myself before I rejoined Dad.

An hour later, a nurse arrived. A short, dark, dumpy woman I'll call Nurse C-. She quickly checked Dad over and proclaimed, "Your father's not going anytime soon. He has a strong pulse."

I didn't know which to believe. This directly contradicted the lady from Hospice. But I noticed my father even weaker as the day wore on.

Another nurse arrived at 10:00 PM to begin her overnight shift. She put Dad to bed. I brought in a fresh change of clothes for in the morning. She told me to take them away, because he would never be leaving that bed alive.--Egads, I hoped my father's poor hearing protected him from that information!

" It's going to get noisy here," she declared. "I just want to you to be aware."

Later as I sobbed into my pillow, my father's shrill wailing and moaning chilled me. It was downright eerie, like something straight from a Victorian horror story, and equally as haunting! I'll never forget it. Honestly, the sound conjured the image of a banshee! This continued throughout most of the night.

The next morning Dad was quiet. On closer examination, my father seemed barely conscious.

Previously, my dad had given me 2 signed checks with instructions to empty his account into mine. So I would have living expenses directly after his death. At the bank, I was bawling so hard, they inquired what was wrong. I explained the situation. They were sympathetic, and suggested I not empty his account entirely due to deposits from investments. I followed their advice.

Upon my return, a different nurse greeted me. Worried, she explained that after her shift ended, no one would be coming. Unfortunately, they were unable to schedule someone for the night shift. I would be alone when my father passed.

Later, a lady who appeared to be in authority, arrived to briefly speak with me. She apologized for the coming night. "I felt I needed to prepare you for what to expect," she lamented. "You might hear a gurgling sound. It's called the Death Rattle. Or sometimes at the end, they have a sudden burst of energy. They'll sit up and start seeing and conversing with dead family members."

I thought to myself, if that happens, I'm leaving through the nearest door and I'm never coming back here!

Having no appetite, I didn't eat my dinner until later than usual. After putting the dishes away, I went upstairs to slip into my lounging robe. I was steeling myself for the unpleasant night ahead. Shortly, the nurse would be leaving.

From the stair landing, I saw the nurse at the foot. "I've been looking for you!" she hollered. "Your father passed!"

I began bawling as I descended. She rushed to console me, but I pushed her away. I didn't want a stranger hugging me. I wanted to see my father! I was startled to see his body in the same position as my mother when she passed 14 yrs earlier. -- Head twisted back to the left, tilted and mouth open. The date was October 16, 2001. My mother had passed October 17, 1987. And both died of exactly the same condition! It was too weird.

The nurse assured me she wouldn't leave until after the body was taken... My father was wheeled away beneath a plush, royal blue cloth. In fact I had a winter robe of the same color and material in the downstairs closet. At 1st glance, I thought they'd taken my robe to cover him.

Finally alone, I was in a state of near shock. I couldn't collect my thoughts. I turned on the TV hoping for a mental escape. I wanted to focus on something in an attempt to steady myself. Someone was knocking on the door.

Nurse C- had returned. She claimed to be concerned about me. We had a calming chat that lasted almost an hour. Before she left, she announced that she planned to take me out for soup and a donut, a week from Friday. Her last words to me were, "I won't forget!"

Well, she forgot!!!

Later, I complained about Nurse C- to the Hospice minister. Who replied, "You've been disappointed by other people many times in your life, haven't you?"

Yeah, that's an understatement.

After the departure of Nurse C-, I decided it was time for bed. I closed my father's upstairs bedroom door.-- He preferred it open. Where as my bedroom door is always keep shut and locked after I retire for the night.

Several years before marrying my father, Avis was awakened after midnight with a knife pressed against her throat! A bruising struggle had ensued, after which she was robbed. -- A locked door may not stop a determined burglar. But it should give me some warning. And I have a semi-automatic.

A thunderous bam jolted my eyes open! A sound of fury against Dad's closed door! I had just settled into bed. My night was a sleepless one.

Arrangements were made for my father's cremation as per his wishes. This is what I desire for myself as well. -- Just make certain I'm 100 % dead first!!!

Around the 3rd night after the death, I turned out my lights and got into bed. I hadn't even closed my eyes, yet. I began hearing loud foot-falls in the loft. My heart pounded. At first, I thought someone had broken into the house! But I had been out there only seconds ago. There was no way I wouldn't have spotted an intruder! Shaking, I listened as someone paced back and forth. Eventually, it stopped.

After my father's cremains were delivered, I placed them before the huge stone fireplace with an Angel figurine on top. His picture is directly above on the mantle. Candles are all around.

There's a long fan hanging down from the cathedral ceiling. Often, it started turning by itself at a fast clip. (With the switch off!) The windows were all closed. There was no draft, or breeze of any sort! Even the air-conditioner was off. It never once did this when my father was alive.

A Memorial Service was planned for the Sunday before Thanksgiving. It would be held in the house. I hoped it would put Dad to rest. Margaret arrived several days before to help. This time, she was sans R.V. and stayed in my father's old bedroom. I told her I was being haunted.

We took care of necessary business the next day. Afterward, we went to the Mall. I purchased a pair of fringed boots and some chic tops. These were the 1st purchases in a long time that didn't come from a Second Hand Store. I told Margaret my father would never approve of my spending that much money. Once he made a big issue of the fact I'd spent $15. of my own money in a Dollar Store.

"When we get back, every fan in the house will be spinning!" she kidded.

I had the house professionally cleaned. Also I ordered several platters of food from the deli for after the service. Margaret helped me prepare.

At the Sunday memorial, I was offended when half the guests arrived wearing shorts. That was disrespectful! I regret not stopping them at the door and telling them to go home and attire themselves appropriately. They should have been in church clothes!

Anyway, the event turned into more a celebration of my father's life than a memorial service. It began and ended with the stirring Bocelli & Brightman rendition of TIME TO SAY GOODBYE. In between soft, lilting music played as everyone shared a memory. I hoped Dad was finally at rest. -- He wasn't!

I was ready to move on, now. I was hurt that so many of the people who wanted every detail of my father's illness now behaved as if I'd been cremated right along with him. -- I was wearing my fire retardant suit that day. But I was still burned!

Suddenly there was an explosion of quiet. I could actually hear my own thoughts, and listen to the TV or radio at a volume that didn't blast my eardrums. Also I didn't have to scream sentences repeatedly to make myself heard. My pleas to my father to get a hearing aid had literally fallen on deaf ears.

At age 50 yrs old, my life had been small, suffocating, and every day hurt. I was determined to change and expand my world. Everything that occurred before was now part of my history, period. I wanted to create a new and different life for myself.

Friday, August 19, 2011

THE THIRD AND FATAL WHAMMY

The Emergency Room was crammed with people. Most didn't seem to be in dire agony as was my father. The wait was arduous. Dad complained he couldn't tolerate the pain. Numerous times, I went up to the desk trying to hurry them. I told my father that I should have called 911. He would have gotten immediate attention! Repeatedly, now he was demanding I phone 911 from the Emergency Room.

After 4 hours, my father was taken to see a doctor, then hospitalized. Later I received a jolting phone call. A large, cancerous tumor was found in his colon. -- My mother died of colon cancer that spread into the liver. An operation was scheduled.

The day of the surgery, I was frantic and sick to my stomach. Thankfully, he survived. But the news was horrendous. As with my mother, the cancer had spread into his liver. Six months to live, was the doctor's diagnosis.

I asked if my father knew. They assured me he did. However when I visited, Dad seemed in uncharacteristically good spirits. He even made jokes. It broke my heart.

I took the nurse aside. I questioned whether my father was aware of the diagnosis. She told me he had been informed. Still, I had my doubts. On subsequent visits, I came away with that same uneasy feeling. -- I'm certain my father's reaction would have been stronger. Histrionic, would be more like it!

I phoned the doctor's office with my concern. Again, I was told the same thing. I reminded them my father was hard of hearing and probably didn't understand. A medical professional needed to tell him. I did not want to be the one to relate horrible news of that magnitude.

A few days later, a cancer specialist was scheduled to come and converse with Dad in front of me. The doctor delivered the news in the same tone of voice as if he was ordering a sandwich. -- I wanted to punch him! My father broke into loud sobs, and I joined him.

We were told chemotherapy might prolong his life, but not by much. The cancer had spread too far. I cried in the car all the way home!

My father decided to go the chemotherapy route and it seemed to be working. The downside was that he had even less control of his bodily functions. He refused to wear an adult diaper because he found them uncomfortable.

I washed a load of nasty-smelling laundry every single day. Sometimes 2, because I refused to wash my clothes in the same batch. I was constantly cleaning up his messes. I remember scrubbing the bathroom floor so many times my hands were red and raw, they burned.

The first thing I did every morning was empty his plastic urinal. Often, it would splash back on my arm. I bleached it every day, otherwise you could smell it throughout the house. Sometimes, by accident he would knock it over on the carpet. Whenever I hear the phrase, THE INDIGNITY OF OLD AGE, I think of my father.

I was 50 yrs old at the time and going through the change of life. I began getting severe migraine headaches. I couldn't eat, even water made me nauseous. Glasses hurt my face. My head throbbed too painfully to sleep. But I still had to care for Dad, because their was no one else.

I recall arising from a sick bed, vomiting, then I driving my father to a doctor's appointment. As Dad was seeing the doctor, I was in the bathroom vomiting, mostly dry heaves. The room was spinning. I told my father I didn't think I could drive. -- But I had no choice! Miraculously, we made it back intact. After returning home, I had to prepare Dad's supper before going back to bed.

My father had a bicycle horn in case he needed to go to the bathroom, or made a mess. Still, he refused to wear adult diapers. I set my alarm clock for 10:00 PM so I could ready him for bed.

I dreaded the weekend, because the phone rang constantly. Neighbors, new and old, as well as relatives, and acquaintances all phoned to inquire as to my father's heath. I found it annoying! I was busy and stressed tending Dad and these were unwelcome interruptions. Besides, at this stage his condition didn't change from week-to-week.

The answering machine we brought from Stuart didn't work in this house. Plus we were home every weekend. The ringing drove me crazy, so I just took the phone off the hook! -- It was better than an answering machine.

My friend and long time pen-pal Margaret, came from the Orlando area to help me celebrate Dad's birthday on May 3. She arrived in one of her R.V.s, the smaller of two. We both enjoyed her visit. I told her I hoped she would return for his next birthday. She replied that my father would have no more birthdays. I was startled, and a little angry. I hoped she was wrong.

The chemotherapy enabled Dad to live for 6 months longer than the doctor's diagnosis. My father was largely pain-free during this period. Unfortunately, after a year the chemo began to make him sick. Dad wanted to discontinue. I remembered my mother having the same reaction. She discontinued and died a month later. I wondered if Dad remembered. But it was his decision.
 

Sunday, August 14, 2011

THE SECOND WHAMMY

After we moved to Vero Beach my father seemed well on his way to recovery. We both loved our new home. The house had been built in 1987. ( The year my mother died.) Yet many of the appliances looked like they were from the Eisenhower administration. During the official inspection, Dad was in the hospital having surgery. I've always suspected someone took advantage.

The refrigerator was so loud even a visiting neighbor commented. From where I sat, it competed with the television. I constantly told my father we should have it checked. Eventually, he bellowed, to just forget it! There's nothing wrong with that refrigerator!

Only a month later, the compressor went. Water covered our kitchen floor. I carried food to unfamiliar neighbors so it wouldn't spoil. And I never once said, I TOLD YOU SO, to my father.  But I should have! Because I was loudly berated for buying too much food. Dad declared, "Our refrigerator should never be that full!" -- He should see it now that I'm alone! You'd never guess that I am trim.

My father replaced it with a USED one. I was angry. We weren't poor and you just don't skimp on a major appliance. Shortly after, THAT refrigerator broke down, too! Again, he was verbally flogging me for buying too much food. I was exasperated!

As for Avis, she was moved to Vero Beach. Dad found a place not far from us. He said it was surrounded by an 8 ft. wall. We doubted she would make any more escape attempts.

My father's health seemed to be quickly improving. We had lived in Vero Beach for nearly a year and a half now. I thought he was starting to resemble his former self. I pictured him fully recovering.

Around 5:00 AM one Tuesday, I was startled awake by a loud crash. I got up to investigate. My father was on the floor struggling to rise. He muttered that part of his body had gone numb. Dad was too heavy for me to lift. I wanted to call 911. He was afraid they would take him to the hospital. We argued. I called 911 anyway. While I was on the phone, he walked into the room. Paramedics were dispatched. They came, checked him out and left.

During breakfast, my father related a dream he had right before he awoke. He said an Angel came into his room. She told him he would not be needing his body soon. My father was NOT religious.

Dad's speech began to slur. I asked if he was OK? Coffee cup in hand, he rose. He lurched forward and staggered. His feet gave out beneath him. He collapsed! His favorite coffee cup smashed on the floor! The paramedics returned. This time Dad was taken to the hospital.

Through therapy, and professional lessons, I recently had gotten my driver's license. But Vero was a strange city. Navigating it was a challenge. Plus I'm terrible with directions. My new next door neighbor, got in the car with me. She directed me to the hospital. After that, I drove there every day.

My father had suffered a stroke. One arm, and one side of his face would be paralyzed for the short remainder of his life. He would be in the hospital for a month. This was early June.

My first night alone, the phone rang at 3:00 AM! I felt my heart stop. I thought my father had died. --There was no one at the other end of the line!

After being released, Dad was sent to a rehabilitation center for another 2 months. It was located just down the street from the hospital. The place was called Healthsouth. My father called it Hellsouth! He was miserable and desperately wanted to come home. I, on the other hand, found my time alone peaceful, even enjoyable. I felt guilty. This was the summer of 2000.

Avis's new residence phoned. She had climbed their wall and took off. Remember, she was only around 5 feet, 2 inches. Anyway, they found her. But she cut her hand in the process and had to be taken to a doctor. They wanted me to pick her up and drive her back. I refused!

Toward the end of summer, Healthsouth arranged a one day home visit for Dad. First, I had to learn how to dismantle and reassemble a wheel chair. I arrived Sunday at 9:00 AM to pick him up. I walked into his room with a big smile, only to find him snarling angry at me.

"What took you so long!" he demanded to know, "I've been waiting since 7:00 AM!"

I thought 9:00 AM was plenty early. Besides, I needed to get ready. -- I began to dread the day ahead.

Shortly after, my father was released in my care. All my time would now be devoted to him. He was more helpless than before. This time a long recovery period was the diagnosis. He couldn't even take himself to the bathroom. Often, he had accidents. Also I had to bathe him. Soon we both got over our embarrassment. He was like a giant infant. He required constant care. Every week, he had doctor's appointments, I drove him.

The only time I had to myself now was breakfast. My father got up late and I rose early. I'd prepare myself a big morning meal. This was my quiet, private time. Once a week, I rose at 5:30 AM to grocery shop and be home before Dad awoke.

For a while, my father had physical therapists come to the house. They would exercise and instruct him. One of his exercises was in front of the dishwasher. It started getting serious dents. I knew I'd better say something before he found a way to blame me. I phrased my words carefully. I asked if he noticed the dents. He snapped that I would have to be more careful with the vacuum cleaner! Immediately, I showed him why it couldn't be the vacuum. He said nothing. But he was red-faced and angry.

I am only relating a few instances out of many. My father was so irritable and critical of everything, I was almost afraid to do anything! He grew worse as he aged. Now that he was sick, he was worst of all. Nearly a day didn't go by when I wasn't yelled at or called "Stupid". I was back to tip-toeing on glass just like in the Avis days. And like her, he was now a tantrum-thrower!

Dad took frequent tumbles. It's a wonder he didn't break any bones! I would struggle unsuccessfully to lift him. I kept wanting to call 911.-- By this time it was taking a toll on my back. He refused to allow it! I would phone neighbors and get answering machines. Then I'd go out knocking on doors, pleading, " Please help me lift Dad, he's fallen again."

However, my father was making some progress. In time, we expected him to slowly recover from his stroke, or at least adjust.

Late one morning, he complained of excruciating stomach pains. Wasting no time, I drove him to the Emergency Room! We had no idea this would be the beginning of the end.

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

THE FIRST WHAMMY

Fortunately, the hospital was just down the street. So I could easily walk there to visit my father. Dad hated hospitals, or anyone else telling him what to do. After a week, his doctor wanted to transfer him to Palm Beach Gardens for triple bypass surgery. My father was insistent he wanted to come home first. His reasoning was that he had grown too weak in the hospital to survive surgery.

Around 11:00 PM, his first night home, both toilets at opposite sides of the house backed up and started overflowing. I mean like a fountains! I had to hurry and roll-up the expensive Oriental rugs. Dad started to complain his chest hurt. I gave him a nitroglycerin pill to place under his tongue. Then I phoned 911.

A policeman arrived first, then the paramedics. I also called a 24 hour plumber. My father sent me to get our neighbor Pete and his wife who lived down the river. They were in their bedclothes. They came, and Pete's wife, Mandy helped me sweep the water out of the house, which was now filled with people. It was a nightmare scenario!

My father refused to go back to the hospital. The paramedics checked him out and left.
After a month of home recovery, we got Pete to take Dad to the hospital in Palm Beach Gardens. It was nearly an hour south of us. I could not get that fortune-telling message out of my head. Plus I was told by a number of people that I had to prepare myself in the event my father did not survive.

Soon after Dad's surgery, Pete drove me down to visit. It was the first time I'd ever seen my father feeble. Always he had appeared and acted young for his years. Now he had aged dramatically in a short period of time. It made me sad to look at him, also scared.

My father was expected to be released right before Thanksgiving. We had to be out of house before the end of the following January. I had already started packing.

I was still in bed at 7:00 AM when the phone rang. A weak voice on the other end kept repeating, "Go,go,go!" My father was eager to come home. I said as soon as I ate breakfast, washed, fixed my hair and make-up we'd be down. He told me I could do all those things after I came home. His voice rose. He ordered me to get Pete now, and get down there!

I skipped breakfast and make-up, but I did wash myself and fix my hair. Then I had to wait for Pete to get ready.

At the hospital, Pete waited in the car while I went up to get Dad. My father was still attached to tubes connected to a metal pole. He told me they would unhook him downstairs. I helped him dress and collected his possessions. Dad carried the pole as we stepped into the hall. As we walked past the nurses station toward the elevator, a nurse pointed to us, and shouted, "Patient escaping! Patient escaping!" Seems he was trying to pull an Avis!

We were then informed that my father had not yet been released by the doctor. Dad was perplexed and petulant. He kept insisting the doctor had told him he could go home. The staff told him they had no knowledge of this. My father ordered me to find the doctor.

Fortunately, his office was close-by. The secretary said the doctor would not be in until that afternoon. I explained the situation and she seemed sympathetic. She said my father's attitude was probably the reason he had the heart attack in the first place. She agreed to call the doctor. An hour later, my father was officially released.

He came home wearing a urinary catheter. Visiting nurses came briefly to tend him. Most of the care fell to me. My father was as helpless as a small child, but was expected to improve quickly. While he was in his weakened condition, I slept over in the main house in the same bed with him.

The last time I had slept in the same bed with my father was when I was 23. We were on a trip in Mexico with Avis. My mother was still alive, but at this point was unaware of Avis's existence. In some of our hotel rooms there was only one king-size bed. I actually slept in the middle between my father and his mistress.

I believe it was about the third night, Dad's catheter became unattached. Most of the urine went on the floor. I cleaned it up, while Dad managed to reattach his catheter. Also my father required help shaving and dressing. Soon this would be our every day routine.

We believed the triple by-pass would add 10 years to my father's life. Little did we know that it was only the first of a triple whammy. And the third one would be fatal.

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

MY BRAND NEW MOUTH

Avis's condition worsened and she became increasingly more difficult. She was thrown out of the Home for damaging personal property. She pulled wires from the TV and other appliances. She also used her hands to wipe herself after using the toilet and went into the owner's closet and got feces all over their clothes. The other elderly women there were afraid of her. My father had just paid for the month and was furious! They kept the money to cover her damages. He was given only 24 hrs. to find a new place. Thankfully, he didn't bring her home!

At this point in time, we were getting ready to put our river house up for sale. That was put on hold. My father found another place, owned and operated by black women. Avis had a southern accent so thick you couldn't cut it with an axe. She kept referring to the women there as "This pickaninny and that pickaninny." Dad said he hoped they made allowances for her condition. Personally, I hope they spit in her food.

Several years before, my father purchased a Lincoln Continental in an attempt to keep up with our nouveau riche neighbors. Now the car was having mechanical problems. One of our nicer neighbors, a seasonal resident and a single lady was driving us to the grocery store. I locked my apt. as usual, before going over to the main house. My father was waiting. He appeared agitated.

"You didn't lock the guesthouse, did you?" His voice displayed anger.


Of course I did. I couldn't understand why he seemed upset.

"I can't believe how stupid you are!" He clutched his forehead. "My keys are with the mechanics at the garage! You are just SO stupid! He began waving his arms. His tirade seemed endless. Egads! I was the most stupid person who ever lived! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! He repeated over and over.

I told him I wasn't a mind reader!


"You knew I took the car down for repair!" he hollered. "You're just stupid!

I assumed he had just given them his car key. But he gave them his entire key ring, house keys and all to be kept over night! Plus he intended to leave our home unlocked while we grocery shopped! I told him our lives and property were in danger, thanks to him! (Talk about stupid!) Suddenly he looked sheepish.

If I had $5. for every time Dad called me "STUPID", I could afford a hillside chateau overlooking the beach in the South of France.

Previously, he had been quick to label me "mental" and fell in line with the distorted thinking of Avis and certain neighbors. However unlike Avis, my psychiatrist and therapists were all behind me.

Perhaps, due to guilt, my father announced he would make 1 fantasy of mine real. He thought it would be a trip to China. A place I've always wanted to visit. Back in my 20's I traveled quite a bit. I made 5 trips to Europe, 3 to Central America. Plus I also went to Russia, Finland, and North Africa. These were fully escorted tours. The wonderful part was I didn't have to drive, nor did I have to fly the plane. And for awhile it was helping me to overcome my extreme shyness and build confidence.

At age 19 I wanted to attend an airline academy several hours away. Room and board were included in the job training. There were all kinds of jobs! I wanted to work inside an airport, rather than be a stewardess. A representative was scheduled to come and talk with us. When I informed my father, his reaction had left me dismayed.

"It's the wrong type of job for you. You're just not suited for this." He was always so matter-of-fact.

I wanted to at least give it a try! He was vehemently against it and didn't want any argument. I pleaded with him to at least hear out the representative since I had no way of cancelling the meeting. He refused.

An hour before the man was scheduled to arrive, my father left in the car. (I never knew where he went.) In 1970, a 19 yr. old didn't have the same rights as an adult. Legally, I couldn't sign anything. When the Rep. arrived, I told him, "I changed my mind." which was a lie.

A year later, my father bought our family business of almost 10 years. Working there enabled me to afford all those fabulous trips. But had I gone to work for an airline, I could have taken them all for much cheaper. And I'd probably still be traveling today! I've always wondered what my life would have been had I taken that path.

Anyway, I wanted something more permanent than a vacation. It always bothered me that I had such an ugly smile. I had a few too many crooked teeth along with undefined lips. I had eyes other girls envied, and good facial bones. But I was embarrassed to smile. I was pretty only when I kept my mouth closed.

When I was 12, we were shooting pictures to send relatives for Christmas. I would only smile with closed lips. My mother got irate because our relatives complained I always looked too grim or overly serious. She began slapping my face ordering me to smile! Instead I burst out crying! Dad made her leave the room while he photographed me. Every time I look at those pictures, I still get a sick feeling.

Most of my mothers physical abuse took place out of my father's sight. On occasion, she slipped. When I was 11 she slammed a fist into the back of the skull with so much force, my father gasped! ( All because I didn't want my hair curled.) I expected him to become enraged, and tell her never to do it again! Instead he made a lame joke and dismissed it. I shouldn't have been surprised. That was his typical way of handling problems.

Because we would soon be leaving, we decided against braces for something faster. So I got a mouth full of crowns. Also, I wanted more definition in my lips to complement my new porcelain teeth. So I set up an appointment to have my lips tattooed.

The young woman doing the work had so many tattoos on her body she looked like a circus freak. My father asked if I really wanted someone who looked like that touching me. He questioned her judgement on beauty. All I was having done was minor cosmetic work.

She numbed my lips with a topical anesthesia before she began. By the time she got to the corners of my mouth, it had worn off. I'd be lying if I didn't say, it hurt like a bitch!

Afterward, my lips had swollen to about 4 times their size. (This is normal after the procedure.) I looked like Goldie Hawn in that comedy where she had the lip injections. The swelling only lasted a day. I had to drink hot coffee through a straw. But I had to go back twice for touch-ups because she got my lips lop-sided.

At long last, I owned a smile of which I was proud! And my new smile and I would be starting life over in a new city!

In the meantime, Avis kept running away from the Home. She would flag down strange cars claiming to be lost and ask them to drive her back to Stuart. Fortunately, she couldn't remember our address. So each time, she was taken to the Police Station. Eventually, the police wanted to put an ankle monitor on her. Dad was against the idea.

My father was getting old, and his reflexes were slowing. He didn't know how much longer he would be able to drive. When we moved to Vero, I would have to overcome my life-long anxiety attacks and get a driver's license. Just the thought was stressful!

Before we moved, I was playing a fortune-telling game.-- You take a book (any one) ask a question, then close your eyes as you flip pages. And whatever sentence your finger lands on, will be your answer. I inquired, if my father and I would be happy in Vero. The answer was, ONE WILL GO, which I found unsettling.

Less than a week later, my father suffered a heart attack and was hospitalized.

Monday, August 1, 2011

WHITE TRASH WITH CASH

Until 1999, we lived in a house overlooking the St.Lucie River. It was a mile wide behind our home. Our dock stretched to 150 ft.. In the back we were on a hill. The view was breathtaking from our Florida room which had sliding glass doors on all 3 sides.-- My mother's dream house! We moved there in 1960, when I was 9. The official end to my blissful childhood. I missed living out in the country. Shortly afterward, my grandfather died. His presence had protected me from my mother's abuse.

In 1997 our property taxes had become stratospheric! Ranch houses like ours were being flattened and mansions were springing up. We could no longer afford to stay. I was elated. I feared I'd die there. This was the house that broke me! Upon first hearing the phrase, Whore's Dream Of Paradise, I thought of my mother and that miserable house! I've always felt I would have been a happier, better adjusted person had I never known her. She died when I was 36.

Less than a year after my mother's passing, my father married his mistress of 18 years. I find it ironic that 2 women who resented each other so much were so similar, sisters under their scales. Both had the minds of Junior High School mean girls their entire lives, even through their different mental disorders. My mother (always unstable) became a full-blown paranoid schizophrenic when I was 14. My stepmother "Avis" was into the early stages of dementia when she moved into our house. Dad was in denial and made excuses.

I first met Avis when I was 20. We got along well on a casual basis for about 2 years. Then her true nature began to emerge. Avis was only 5 feet 2 inches in height. But short people can be the meanest. She reminded me of one of those yappy, vicious, little Pomeranian dogs.

I've heard that dementia patients change personalities as the disease advances. I saw little evidence of this with Avis.-- Remember, I knew her for almost 2 decades. If anything, she became more her true self. The only difference I noticed was her constant repetition of the same questions. She had a memory like a drain. And it drove me freak'n nuts! I kept telling Dad she must have Alzheimer's.

As with my mother, Avis was a completely different person in public, than private. Both were highly skilled at discerning what other people wanted to hear. Both were as sincere as a used car salesman running for office. They could spoon-feed fertilizer like fructose syrup. Fools adored them and cherished their acquaintance.

In Elementary School, other kids actually told me I was lucky to have such a sweetheart for a mother. They would have been horrified to see the snarling, swearing, harridan using my head for a punching bag. I was also kicked, pinched, slapped and threatened with worse on a regular basis. I had a fist rammed into the back of my head just for sneezing! I was accused of catching a cold, and my God, now the whole family would get sick! And it would be my fault! I just wasn't careful enough. ( Exactly how does one control a virus?) I tried to pull the blinders from other people and force their eyes open! However, I was regarded as just a negative person with an agenda. I had similar experiences as an adult with my stepmother.

Avis moved in like an invading army. Our drapes and carpet were changed and our walls repainted to accommodate her furniture. Soon, we couldn't make a move without consulting her first. It was as if we had moved into her home, not the other way around. The first month, she laid down the law to my father. He was informed that if he ever caused her leave, she'd take half of everything! Avis claimed he would never have owned his business had it not been for her. -- All she did was collect information for him, nothing else! Her evil words worked magic. Any time she wasn't getting her way, all Avis had to do was threaten to leave. My father would panic and give her anything , even throw me under a train!

Our home had a small guesthouse connected by the carport. The apt. consisted of 2 rooms and a bath. The closet was tiny. Also there was no kitchen. My brother, who is 11 years my senior lived there on and off when he wasn't in a mental facility or the psychiatric ward of federal prison.-- He was the reason my father didn't believe in therapy. He'd had all kinds of it (and medication) most of his adult life and never seemed to improve. Now he was in a half-way house in California. If he wanted to return, too bad! Against my father's wishes, I moved over there to get some distance from Avis.

Because the closet was so tiny, I had to keep most of my possessions in the main house which annoyed her. Avis didn't want me coming over for ANY reason! Unfortunately, I also had to come over to eat.

I ate separately. Usually, only twice a day. I changed my meal times frequently to accommodate her. Eventually, I was eating breakfast and my big meal only 4 hours a part. Still, she complained I interfered with her schedule. She wanted my father to buy me a hot plate and mini-fridge for Christmas so I would not have to come over to eat.  Fortunately, Dad thought about as much of that idea as I did.

Nor did she want me using the bathrooms in the main house. The only one I used was the little one off the kitchen. Usually, there was no soap. I kept bringing bars over from the apt. and they were always disappearing! Finally, I asked her what happened to all the soap. She hollered that if I wanted soap, I should stay next door! I told her I had the right to be there!!! My father rarely intervened in our fights, this time he did, and sided with me. She seethed. Angrily, she instructed me to get a paper towel and wipe the sink completely dry when I was done washing my hands. I told her she was being ridiculous. It was a bathroom, not a shrine. Avis threw one of her infamous tantrums! Had there been a bar of soap she would have thrown it at my head! Swearing to leave the next morning, she stormed off to the bedroom, where she pretended to be sick.-- Avis did this frequently! Unfortunately it was just for show.

My father often said she was very sensitive and little things upset her. I told him "sensitive" was the wrong word. Sensitive people have empathy. She was just touchy and dictatorial.

Naively, I confided to neighbors whom I thought were kind and believed to be my friends. ( I should have known better.) They seemed sympathetic, but went directly behind my back to Avis and repeated everything I'd said. Of course she denied everything, then told them not to believe me, because I was mental. -- I've never denied my anxiety attacks, obsessive compulsive disorder, or chronic depression; but I don't have hallucinations nor am I a liar! Naturally everyone believed her, and went over to the Avis side.

Dad banged on my door! Once inside, he gave me hell for confiding to my so-called friends. I told him he should be yelling at them for betraying my confidence! At the very least, let them know the reality of our situation. He said he couldn't do anything that would put Avis in a negative light.

The neighbors began acting downright ugly to me! I had so many knives in my back it was a miracle I could stand.

Soon after, I was in therapy. It was court-ordered! Mentally I snapped, I could only tolerate so much. I did despicable things to despicable people. All of it deserved! (I 'll discuss this much later in detail.) I am not proud of the things I did. But you cannot treat someone the way I was treated without repercussion. Sometimes good people do terrible things. Anyway I was punished. My lawyer called it a slap-on-the-wrist. It felt more like a punch in the gut! To this day, I remain unrepentant. It was the price I had to pay to get Avis out of our lives, as well as a particularly odious neighbor. Besides, when you deal with individuals of that ilk you're forced to sink to their level.

I learned quickly that if you live around people with money you'd better have it too. Otherwise, they don't view you as having the same rights. Their wants and needs will always take priority. I found these to be some of the most vile and contemptible people you could ever imagine. Obviously money can't buy class. I also learned that whenever you go up against anyone in court, the one with the most money has all the credibility.

I was required to phone the mental health center every A.M. for about two weeks to assure them I had not killed myself. Avis said right in front of me and Dad that she wished people who talked about suicide would shut up and just do it! My father remained silent. I told her if I ever did, I'd take her and that rich bitch next door with me! She and her friend could lead the way to Hell.

More than once, my natural mother said to me, " Why don't you go kill yourself." It actually makes me angrier now. Back then, I'd just think, I'd rather kill you! One summer afternoon when I was 10, I watched a TV program in which a little boy of similar age shot his mother to death for no apparent reason. I started cheering and applauding. I know it made my mother nervous.

The only reason I've never committed suicide, was because I knew it would make too many people happy. Better to live and be a negative force in their lives.

Avis moved into a condo only a few miles away. My social-climbing stepmother felt like an anathema in our neighborhood thanks to me. Geez, guess how I felt! Every time I walked 3 blocks to the library I imagined people pointing from their windows and exclaiming, "Look, there goes that crazy one!"

Avis still did not want a divorce, and my father was afraid to get one. I told him he should call her bluff. -- He had a pre-nup, for crying out loud! But he was scared to take the chance after seeing what I went through in court. He feared a liberal female judge might throw out the pre-nup. I think he should have risked it.

Avis's new neighbors phoned and told us she was easily confused, and they they were concerned. (I've always found it strange the old neighbors never noticed anything unusual.)-- Avis once placed a metal pan in our microwave. It was shooting sparks as I walked through the door.-- As usual, my father was clueless as to what to do. So he did nothing in this case as well.

Late one afternoon, I took a phone call from a policeman. Avis was under arrest for indecent exposure. She stood topless on her balcony flashing oncoming traffic as well as other condos. Immediately, my father left. He could no longer retreat to his dome of denial.

My stepmother was taken to the hospital for observation. She had to be strapped to a chair. Apparently she believed the hospital room was her new apt. and she kept looking for the living room. From there she was sent to a mental facility for further observation and diagnosis. She underwent tests for a month. The diagnosis was dementia. -- I had been telling my father this for 4 years! Now he heard it from a professional.

Our neighbors should have gotten down on their knees and apologized to me! Of course they didn't.

Avis needed to be placed in a Home with professional caregivers. My father found her a place in Port St. Lucie a half an hour away. He would visit every Sunday and take her out to dinner. After returning, Avis would refuse to get out of the car. She wanted to go home with him. Her caregivers had to physically remove her from the vehicle.

My father's health was waning and our now sky-high property taxes were presenting a hardship. I was told I could choose our next house. Because it would be my home after he was gone.

Stuart was filled with horrible memories. I was eager to leave. I wanted no neighbors within socializing distance. Also I wanted to be away from the coast because it got the brunt of hurricanes.

I had been fortunate enough to create friendships with two wonderful older women now living in other distant Florida cities. We kept in touch by phone and letters. I wanted to either live close to my friend Margaret in the central part of the state, or my friend Pat in north Florida. But my father complained that the 1st place got TOO HOT in summer and the 2nd TOO COLD in winter, and he just couldn't take it at his age! We ended up moving where he wanted, not where I wanted! He pulled this same stunt on me in other instances. I complained that I didn't want to live in hurricane alley.

"Vero Beach doesn't get hurricanes," he stated matter-of-factly.
"Excuse me? Every place in Florida gets hit!" I told him.
"Not Vero, it has to do with its location on the map," he replied.

I realized that was crazy, wishful thinking. Unfortunately, once he'd made up his mind, it was impossible to reason with him. And guess what! After only 9 months of moving here, we were struck by a hurricane!!! In the 12 years I've lived in Vero, I've been hit by 4 hurricanes! In the 48 years we lived in Stuart, we were struck by just 2! And the 3 worse ones I endured alone, after my father died.

Our Stuart house went up for sale by owner. We knew we had a valuable piece of property. The Realtors circled. They smelled blood and closed in. Nearly all of them wanted to buy our property, for their own families, they said. What liars! We learned the costly way that Realtors are in the same category as lawyers, used car salesmen, and politicians. Put them all in a bag and shake it and it's a toss up which one will emerge first. However at this point we were eager to sell and leave. We had 6 months to find a new home.

Vero Beach was an hour away. We wanted a country atmosphere. The 3rd house we viewed was a two-story in a 1950's style neighborhood with lots of beautiful greenery. The 50's were my favorite decade. People seemed more decent and respectable then. Family pride prevailed, and even poor people displayed class. Now, no one does!

As we approached the house, a big orange cat greeted us. We didn't know it then, but he came with the house. A delightful bonus! As Dad and I stepped inside, we were simultaneously struck by the proverbial thunderbolt. The ceiling was 30ft high. A huge stone fireplace warmed the living room. A spacious loft looked down from above. Large picture windows were throughout, including a high double one in the living room. The place had a rustic, European fairy tale look.

My life was hardly a fairy tale. Although fairy tales can be downright gruesome! -- Think children cooked alive in ovens. I've always felt if I'd been the same person a few hundred years ago, I would have been burned as a witch. I know that was true in my old neighborhood. I had forgotten how it felt to be happy. But now my life could begin fresh. But first, there were new ordeals ahead I was forced to face and overcome.