Shitty diapers And God's Covenant

Dear Hearts,

Burning Bed keeps sticking in my mind like a poisonous centipede. (There are apparently a lot of poisonous species of centipedes that can take something down, like a mouse, four times their weight—good to know.)

But I was running the other day. Definitely the other day.

Not today. Not yesterday. Not Monday. Snow. Snow. Snow. I have not left the house since Monday. We are finally getting the walk-in shower put in for Papa. I digress. But, Gram is in Heaven with Saint JPII and Christ himself.

Christ is like,” I just had to deal with the Romans and Pharisees—you lived with that man your whole life. I got out at 33—you were in it until you were 90!”

I wonder if Gram ever felt angry at Papa? If he shuts off one more light on me the ending will not be good. He makes it so hard not to kill him! I use too much water, I have too many lights on…yes, Arthur.

Hey, Papa! Turn down the fucking heat and save some money!

I love him. I would do anything for him. But, it’s not easy.

I moved out here to not kill myself. To get away from everything that haunted and pursued me. “Taking care” of Papa was a vague idea—but not real. He still drove. He could get his own meals. He did his own laundry. He was okay living alone—but it would be better if I were there. Mutually beneficial.

I wasn’t thinking in color. Taking care of shitty diapers. Picking, literally, his shit up after him. Washing shit stained towels, underwear, and clothes. Changing his cath bag. Taking care of his broken foot and then cath stoma.  Being his primary means of transportation. Taking his mood swings. This is full Technicolor now, baby.

He cannot live alone. Someone has to be here to care for him. That’s me. And, Aunt Faerie. But, I am the one who makes sure he takes his night time pills and takes care of his aches and pains and spills at 10 o’clock at night. I am doing his laundry. Picking disposable diaper detritus out of the washing machine.

 I sound resentful. I am not. It’s just…and I’ll be honest. It’s harder than I thought it would be. I saw two grandparents through this, but I wasn’t doing the primary hands-on care. Mom mostly did that and Dad.

Now, it’s me. He has changed so much since I came here in September. He cannot clean himself anymore. He cannot care for himself anymore. Not the way he should. It gets me out of my head.

Surprisingly, I am still more freaked out by germs in public that a piece of his shit on the floor. I am keeping my bath towels in my room, because he is using them as hand towels.

I really digressed.

I am powerless to protect him from himself. I can’t make him wash his hands. I can “save” water by doing our laundry together. I can sanitize the kitchen and bathroom as much as possible. I can check that his car doesn’t need an oil change.

“You are 2,000 miles from needing one.”

“I am not. You are wrong.”

Turn the car on….”Oh, I thought the mileage was higher.”

I am less modest. I have seen every bit of him and cleaned every inch of him. Routinely, I deal with his cath bag, stoma, and diapers. He will just get over the embarrassment of seeing in a towel or low cut tank top. I still worry about getting in trouble for leaving a light on—but in a less severe way. Sometimes after I drive him somewhere, like drop him off at Aunt Faerie’s, I will drive home in a way he would definitely not approve of. I don’t slow down and jolt to a stop at stop signs. I don’t move over for other cars. But he wanted me to just drive into the middle of a funeral procession the other day.

“Hell, we’ll be here forever!”

“Just hit it [the squirrel]!”

“No! Turn right up here after that right and that right! No, right there!”

Major digression.

Burning Bed is still burning my buttons. Those motherfuckers. I fucking gave them everything I had and they treated me like an expendable fast-food employee who just COULD NOT get the hang of the French fryer. Fuck you. But, see, Burning Bed had been my plan when I came out here. It was my future. I put all my eggs and even those I didn’t yet have into one basket.

But, as I was running the other day a sense of Peace came over me.

Right now, right here I am supposed to be doing this. This, taking care of Papa, is my full-time job. My purpose. I saw a bird above me, just riding the wind effortlessly, wingsoutstretchedd.

“Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And one of them shall not fall on the ground without the care of your Father. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.” Matthew 10: 29-31

This is The Path I am on right now. God will reveal the rest in his time.

I never much contemplated the specifics the Heaven or life after death. But, what if I stopped trying so hard “to be happy” and “find my purpose” and rested instead in the knowledge that after death, I will be in the Ultimate Peace and God’s perfect Kingdom. Apparently, Catholics believe that Heaven is a lot like Earth—just without all the bad parts. Cool. I can eat all the pie and smoke all the cigarettes I want!

What if resting in God’s Covenant of the life after this one—actually makes you live more in the moment because you are not worrying every moment about the future. You accept the here and now—the good and the bad…as the Covenant of what is to come is so much fucking greater.

Easier philosophized than done.

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 Ailbhe; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.

Grateful For:

Health

Angel

Family

New bathrooms

Angel

My room

My wolf night light

Cross stitching

ER on Hulu

Faith