Dear Nebraska,
I miss you. A week ago today we got home after driving over 18 hours.
I miss your rolling hills, scrub grass, wide open spaces where no one can hear you scream, real night without light pollution, and coffee. Yes, the Ranchers will always be Nebraska to me—just like Glastonbury is England to me.
You gave me a break from real life. No bills, no responsibilities, no worries—just living in the moment—and being taken care of by Dad.
You taught me how to shoot a motherfucking gun! Badass!
A Buffalo gave his life to us and co-mingled his spirit with ours.
I envy Daughter 1 who is married and in love (obviously from what I observed). I envy that she has found her place in life. The Ranch, husband, parents, horses, and eventually children. I envy Mrs. Rancher who is just two years older than I, and may not have a college education, but has a wonderful husband, children, horses, cats, and dogs who love her. They both know their role in life, their place. I envy Rancher who is attractive, fit, hard-working, Libertarian (Really? We could work on that), and a Gideon. He could convert.
Oh, Nebraska, I realize that what I saw of you was only our first date and you were putting your best self forward. I didn’t expect to fall in love with you, but I did.
Now, I am back in The Holy City. Yes, it’s great that my bedroom isn’t heated with space heaters. I know my sheets and bathroom are clean. I am with my little “Girly-Girl,” “Little Miss,” Angel—my pussycat.
Half my life has been lived and what have I to show for it? My winning success over the last three days has been no episode. We’ve all just tacitly given up on my going back to work and making $1,100 a month—what I can make with my SSD benefits. I mean tacitly given up for now—not ever. After this month I will be financially dependent on my family.
Life is messy. I know that and I accept that. I didn’t expect to stop and feel…whatever I did…when I saw T.’s new picture on Facebook.
I cannot see a future. I can’t. Dreams? What do I want? I don’t know.
I AM NOT looking forward to Christmas. I wish I could just skip the whole bloody thing and stay home. Two years ago (three days shy) I OD’ed. Last year, T. was stealing my sister’s whiskey and filling the bottle with water. I chose him over my family. By the Grace of God, my family did not give up on me.
Here is one thing I want for certain: I want to see Vactican City and Saint Peter’s Basilica where Peter, the first pope, is buried. I want to be in the presence of Pope Francis. There’s a dream.
But even as I think about that…eh. It would be a long way to go.
Last night I dreamt about Carolyn’s. Boss Lady was being mean to me and I called her an asshole—then she called the cops on me. (Being arrested, the ultimate GETTING IS TROUBLE is one of those recurring wake up without my breath dreams). A young woman, recent college grad, has taken my place. By all accounts, she’s doing fine. What is she able to do that I couldn’t? Why am I so weak and broken that I can’t even work a full-time job? I don’t ask God these questions, but rather myself.
Kate, why are you a loser? Whatever is going to become of you? How did you fuck up so badly?
Love, Kate.
**********
Dear Hearts,
I wrote earlier of G-Pa having cognitive misfires. It’s more than that. (I’m sorry Aunt Faerie.) His judgment is off. We are under a winter advisory with a possible seven plus inches of snow in the next 24 hours. He wonders why we can’t go to Aunt Faerie’s for dinner. This from the same man who won’t go out in the rain.
When Dad and I got here last week—after 18 hours of driving and being up over 24 hours—two things were important to G-Pa. Where were the Christmas decorations and would Dad’s stuff be gone from the newly cleaned living room by Sunday. He was unsettled by the sudden change in routine. I watched him stumble around Dad’s stuff putting up Christmas stockings.
Dr. Swede calls it Cognitive Dissonance. I call it Cognitive Decline. G-Pa is Slipping. That’s the truth of it. I’m sorry Aunt Faerie. It’s true. I see it here with him every day. From being his senses being dulled to forgetfulness to illogical thinking to irritability to not understanding all the business communications he gets.
Since Dad left, things are better. G-Pa and I have a routine. Although, right now, as it is snowing and like 20 degrees out he is in the garage. I gotta check and see what he’s doing. He got the snow blower out. Okay. That’s fine. But I am not using it until it’s done snowing. And he’s not using it at all.
G-Pa and I have a routine. I zig; he zags. I do things and don’t mention they are done. They just get done. The counters get wiped down. Old food gets thrown away. The dishes are washed in the dishwasher. The bathroom gets cleaned. G-Pa is not upset about my “mess” in the living room. Aunt Faerie says I leave “Kate piles.” Well, Mom told me that when they were kids Gran was reading a book about Indians and she gave all the kids Indian Names. Aunt Faerie’s Indian name was “She Who Leaves A Trail Behind.” My piles are neat. All drawing supplies are now in a box.
G-Pa tried to make a carbon monoxide detector go off by lighting matches in front of it. He then tried to pry it open with a butter knife. His judgment is Slipping. It’s true Aunt Faerie. I’m sorry. You can be mad at me. (But you know only family reads this blog anyway.)
I try to keep everyone happy and not mad at me. I do my best so G-Pa isn’t mad at me. I do my best so Aunt Faerie isn’t mad at me. Dad says that living in the same cycle again. But, it’s my fault. My inability to break the cycle.
So, maybe that’s what I get: misery, because I can’t break my fucking cycle of placation. (Huh, that’s really a word.)
It’s scary, sad, frustrating, sorrowful—that G-Pa is Slipping. Dr. Swede said that his wife is also. So, what do you do about it? This is what the ever-wise Dr. Swede said, “you watch for patterns in behavior and thought.” In other words, you observe. Maybe he forgot the dishes in the dishwasher were clean and put the dirty dishes in there too, because he is human or because he is Slipping.
Our love for him doesn’t change. Not at all! My role just becomes more diligent and vigilant. He is 96 years old. That is fucking old.
I can feel an episode in the making right now.
We admit the Slippage though and we support one another. We admit it. G-Pa is Slipping.
Everyone did that with me. Maybe they still do it. Kate is depressed and disabled. We can’t expect her to…We ought to be proud of the fact she didn’t kill herself today.
But at least G-Pa has a good reason for Slipping. Being 96 and live a long hard, good life.
Yesterday G-Pa was interviewed by Christ Church. In 1931 G-Pa came from Chicago to live at The Orphanage in town. This Orphanage was sponsored by his grandmother’s church, Christ Church. Christ Church still exists-like the Methodists, Presbyterians, etc.—and still helps children and families in need. He is the oldest living member of The Orphanage.
“How did you come to live at The Orphange? Interviewer asked.
“Well, it was The Depression and there were six of us kids. Pa had no job and Ma was on him about it. Pa said that Ma came at him with a butcher knife, so he strangled her.”
PAUSE. Aunt Faerie audibly gasps. Kate puts her arm around Aunt Faerie.
There is more to the story than that, but that is for another day. For 85 years G-Pa has lived with that burden. For 85 years, G-Pa has carried “great dark, deep, shameful secret” with him. Of course, there is nothing to be ashamed of. It was a bad situation and no one really knows what happened in that house that day. Pa called the police immediately and was crying and holding his baby girl on his lap when the police arrived. Pa was sent to an asylum for the criminally insane in 1931. If you didn’t go in crazy—which he probably wasn’t—you came out crazy. Pa died in a nursing home and G-Pa never saw him again. His grandmother made him promise to never see his father again and hence was born the “great dark, deep, shameful secret.”
G-Pa told none of us about this growing up. Not his children. No one. Mom stumbled on the truth before I was born. I have known since I was a kid. Aunt Faerie didn’t find out until she was like really, really old—in her 50s. ;-)
How can an event like that not shape your life and who you are? Got PTSD? G-Pa is a such a stickler about the grass, appearances, etc. because, I THINK, he was always trying to be good enough. I know that feeling. Although, in no way am I comparing my trauma to his. Not even fucking close.
He let that go yesterday. G-Pa sent that demon packing. Poof. It died in “a whimper.”
I haven’t talked to G-Pa about it. I probably won’t unless he brings I up. I wonder if part of that revelation yesterday wasn’t tied to his Slippage. Either way—I think the fact that he put it out there is great! (Dr. Swede agrees—he said it is healing.)
He has lived an incredible life and done incredible things. He lived the American Dream. He did good.
So, if I need to be a bit more vigilant about checking his judgment then so be it. If that’s why I am here—so he will NOT EVER LEAVE HIS HOUSE—okay. (Kennedys don't put their old people in homes.) At least I am serving a good man.
We watch, observe, love, reduce his anxiety, take care of him, give him pie, and make sure he has a bed-time treat.
But, if he thinks I am going to ever wear nylon stockings and sandals together—there is no fucking way. Some lines, I will not cross.
Now, I am having me a cup o’ coffee and a cigarette—first of the day. Nothing better. Life worth living!
Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless
In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.
PS: Be mad at me or not Aunt Faerie. This is My Truth as I see it.
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