Hey, Scones, I’m fantastic at telling other people what to do. Myself? Not so much.
My current state of mind regarding my father.
So, taking Dad to what was supposed to be his first physical therapy appointment for the lower back pain he’s been suffering for a little over a month now (except now that the doctor has decided Something Must Be Done, somehow, the back pain isn’t so terrible anymore) . . .
First, Google maps lies about where the office is. Second, no, bitch, it’s not “right by the hospital”. It’s a quarter of a mile away, off a residential street, set back by a long driveway, and completely out of sight. Also, if your office hours and phone message say you’re there from 8 a.m., but you don’t pick up the phone until 9 a.m., I hate you.
Then, I’ve got Dad yelling at me while I’m trying to clear traffic. “Look out! Look out!” Because being yelled at while driving, makes my driving better.
Oh, and it’s not an appointment. It’s to fill in paperwork. Which could be done any time the office is open, so why did they say “be here at 8:30!”? Because they deserve every damn non-lethal form of humiliating punishment the SDMB could invent in one day, that’s why.
Also, Dad no longer remembers our street number or ZIP code correctly. Kind of a big deal. He asked me to look over the paperwork, and when I did - and found many omissions and mistakes (No operations, Dad? Seriously? You don’t remember the one twenty-five years ago that put you in the hospital for six weeks where they roto-rootered out your fucking carotid arteries?) - he yelled at me for that.
Long story short (“Too late!”), we got home, I tried to take a break, asked Mom to call him to remind him to take his 1 p.m. meds, only to discover at 3:30 that he hadn’t taken them, played the good daughter, took him his meds, got yelled at fucking again, and yelled right back at him.
Among the phrases out of my mouth:
“Don’t ask me for help and then yell at me when I help.”
In response to “This is my house,” “Great. I’ll go upstairs, pack a bag, call Mom, say goodbye, and be out of here in an hour. THIS IS MY HOUSE TOO!”
“You treat waitresses and cashiers with more courtesy than you do me.”
And,
“No one in my life treats me with as much disrespect as you do. If they did, they’d be out of my life. The only reason you’re still in my life is because you’re my father and my mother’s husband.”
Yet, I’m factually wrong, according to him. When asked how he could show me respect, and I told him one thing he couldstop yelling at me while I’m driving, he said no. So, I said I would no longer drive him anywhere, ever, at all. Which made him sad. Dad has a sad.
Yeah, well, Dad can have his fucking sad and build a damn couch fort with it, because he’s due for another memory test at the end of this month, and Mom and I are both going to tell the doctor to pull his driver’s license, and if I have to hide his car beneath the Santa Monica pier, that’s what I’ll fucking do. The invertebrates down there will make better, safer use of it than him.
If it were just me and Dad, I’d yell right back at him, and if he has a sad, boo-fucking-hoo. But, he’s going to suck Mom into his sad, and she’s going to play peacemaker, even when it stresses her out, and she’s the productive member of the family who ought to be allowed to put her feet up and sip whisky when she gets home.
Damitol so very much.
[sub]Flames . . . flames on the side of my head . . . heaving, breathi- breathless . . . [/sub]
So he slightly more than tripled his money - not bad for a random event.
