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Category Archives: Crap that makes me eat too much ice cream

The general insanity – father, children, brain – that sends me straight for the carton.

Hurricane Sandy Wrap-up

The other morning, I awoke in my own bed, snuggled under my own covers. I went downstairs and made myself a hot cup of coffee and prepared lunches for my kids for school. School!! After almost two weeks, except for two days where I schlepped back and forth from my moms, my boys were going back to school. I could dance with glee.

When Hurricane Sandy whipped through our town, taking down trees and flooding houses, it left my town cold. Literally, our entire town was without power. Days for some, weeks for others. Many, still are in the dark. And up until yesterday, there was a gas shortage. Most days, there was no gas to be found. It was beyond odd. Even if the stations had power, they had no gas. If you were lucky enough to find an open station, you could wait on line for an hour or two.

But the experience has not been without its benefits. For the first week, I really enjoyed the adventure of it all. The brush with disaster left me filled with appreciation. It could have been much worse. But, after days in the dark and cold, and then days cramped at my in-laws and finally, at my mom and step-father’s, it was enough.

We were all off schedule, out of sorts, pent up with energy and frustration. We missed our friends, we missed our lives. Some of us, ahem, missed our freezer full of ice cream.

And then Thursday we were told power had been restored to our house, so we packed our kids, cat and lizard and drove back home. Pulling up to our house, we stared out the car windows, moving in slow motion with faces full of anticipation and fear. It was day time and no discernable lights could be detected.

Oh no, what if we didn’t have power. I steeled myself. Whatever it was, we were home – and we weren’t leaving. We pulled around to the garage. It was the moment of truth. Howard pushed a button, and… the garage door rose. Like magic. Like electricity. Like wow!

We gaped, oohed and ahhed. We had the Power. We all tumbled over one another to get in and flick on lights. Gee, in the light, my house was, well, disgusting. The mattress we had slept on covered our living room floor and was blanketed in toys. In the kitchen, some congealed something was spilled on the table, along with a leftover piece of cold half eaten pizza. Dirty clothes were littered everywhere. Or maybe they were clean, didn’t matter, they were certainly dirty now.

The next hours, days even, was a return to order. Or at least what normally passes for order in my house. So, I thought I’d share a few of my highlights and nolights (tee hee) of the past 2 weeks.

* Taking a run with Howard to Coney Island and Sheepshead Bay while at my MIL. At Coney Island, the boardwalk couldn’t even be found, nor the street or some cars, under mounds of sand. At Sheepshead Bay, the businesses that line the Bay were literally drowned. Horrible.

* Waiting on line for gas in my town. The local deli had a guy taking orders at people’s windows. I got some hot coffee and read my kindle for an hour. Not so terrible.

* Seeing the trees that crashed literally through houses and onto cars! One even on our lawn.  Insane!


* Eating at Franks, a local pizza place, where Linda, the owner pumped out pies in semi-dark with an oven and a generator.

* Our children, playing through the house with flashlights, giggling the whole time.

* Trick or Treating (against the police commissioner’s orders) over the trees and under the wires to houses for candy we go…

* Going from neighbor to neighbor, checking in, offering a hand or anything we could. It was like Hurricane Caroling.

* My first after power shop!

It is a whole other post about how LIPA dropped the ball. At first, everyone was supportive and sympathetic to the overwhelming need and disaster, but after a week or so of absolutely no presence or seemingly any hope of power, the tides began to turn. People became angry, and loopy… no one was fixing anything. At night, there were no lights to be seen. Our town was a black hole in space. Gas became scarce. Then there was another storm…

Overall, it’s been crazy, but not as crazy as for some. So we are thankful that the disaster was not a complete disaster for us, and praying that those still in need are somewhere warm while they wait for their lives to return to some kind of normal.

LIPA – Grrrrr. LIPA workers – Thank you!!

 

What Not To Do In A Hurricane

Hurricane Sandy was barreling towards us. My husband was in full protection mode, gathering food and supplies into the basement. The boys were excited since school was closed. Right now, it was all flashlights and fun, but it was only 9 am on Monday and the real storm was not supposed to hit for hours. Did I mention there wasn’t any school?

My crazy brain was figuring out my schedule for the week that was already off schedule. There were class trips, a party and dentist appointments. Plus, my cousin was in NYC for the week. And oh, yeah, Halloween was Wednesday. Without the storm, it was already one of those jam-packed weeks that I was going to be working hard to get it all in, especially my gym time.

Hmm. There’s an idea. I look outside and it doesn’t seem so bad yet, so I call the gym.  They are open and have assured me that there are actual people there. I can’t believe it. Maybe I’m not so crazy.

Afraid of my Safety Patrol husband, I gently broach the idea of me sneaking out for an hour. He looks at me as I knew he would, but actually just rolls his eyes and gives the okay. Wow. I wasn’t expecting it to be that easy. Before he changes his mind, or the storm changes course, I head out.

The roads are pretty deserted. It’s not really raining much and the winds are mild to moderate. The only thing that makes me nervous is the water. The gym is right on the Sound, and it looks dangerously close to running over. I feel a rush of anxiety and keep thinking, “Really? You had to go to the gym this bad?”

Apparently I did, and so did the other 15 or so people there. I recognize a few, and it calms me a little. Okay, I’m not super crazy. But then I see him, and I know I am. You know him, even if you don’t know him. He’s the guy in your town who’s a little tightly wound. He shouts the loudest at the kids’ sports games. He’s a little too intense and calls attention to himself in just that extra way that makes you go, “Hmmm,” and take two steps back.

Great. Now we’re bonded as one of the elite crazy people who decide to go to the gym during a hurricane. 40 minutes I tell myself, then I’m out. The storm isn’t really supposed to hit till later, and the radio had just said that high tide ended and the water was receding a bit. Calm. Calm.

I get on the elliptical, listening to the news, moving my feet faster in some warped way thinking I’ll finish faster. The front doors of the gym have the garage guard down, so that the glass doors are protected. It isn’t a big deal, except without the outside lights, the gym feels like a tomb. The whole time, I’m imagining scenarios of death.

About 25 minutes in, the lights go out. Most people calmly get off their machines, but there’s a frightening few that continue to pedal like mechanical Stepford wives. I head straight for the door, afraid that some kind of apocalypse awaits outside.

It’s pretty much the same as before, with moderate wind and some rain. I jump into my car and spy intense man doing the same. We head in the same direction, since there is only one road along the water and we live blocks apart about 5 minutes away.  We are almost at our turn, when I see him quickly U-turn and head back toward the gym. Huh?

Oh. There is a cop standing in the road, blocking the way. I lower the window, but before I can ask anything, the officer barks, “Turn around!”

“But I live there. How am I supposed to get that…?”

“Turn around!” he barks in answer. It makes the last thin nerve I’m working with snap and tears pool in my eyes.

“You could be a little nicer, Officer!” I squeak at him and make a U-turn.

Going back the other way, I keep one eye on the road and the other on the water, trying to keep it together. I’m never going to see my children again, because I needed to go to the gym. Okay, I tell myself. I can just take Radcliffe. It’ll be okay. With a plan, I calm, for about 30 seconds. That’s when I saw the other road block straight ahead. Sirens start to wail, and not just in my head.

As far as I knew, there was water to my left and a bunch of dead ends on my right.  I was trapped. Intense man was in the same position, and I watched him make a quick right on a road that said No Thru. Panicked, with nowhere else to go, I followed. I had never been on the road before, but it whipped somehow around the water and connected to another road that brought us back on higher ground, close to home.

I breathed a deep heave of relief. Safe. I’ll never leave home again! Thank you, intense man. The water was now behind me and my house in front of me. Oh, and Dunkin Donuts right here in the middle. And, it’s…open. I really should get home. I never should have left. A hurricane was coming. But…it would only be a minute, and really, who knew when I’d get a nice, hot coffee again.

Tomorrow is 9 days  since I’ve had a cup of heaven or seen the inside of the gym. We’re still waiting for our power to return.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

La La La La La La – I can’t hear you!!!

La La La La La La – I can’t hear you!!!

“I didn’t do it,” my middle son looked at me with over-sized cartoon eyes swearing his innocence.

“He’s lying, mommy,” my oldest shouted in frustration. “He did do it!”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

I rolled my eyes. As usual, I had no idea who was telling the truth and who was lying. They are such skilled manipulators, that I don’t even think they know what the truth is; they are just so intent on proving the other wrong and winning, which, of course, is the most important thing.

It’s like, well, it’s just like the Presidential Debate I watched last week.

Do they ever answer any questions?

Moderator – How exactly do you do plan on improving the economy, Mr. Romney?

Romney – Well I appreciate that question and I’d love to get everyone jobs and I’ll be getting everyone jobs because there is nothing I’d rather see. So you see, that’s what I’ll be doing. It’s my job to get you jobs. Heh, heh.

Obama – I am not just talking about getting jobs, I have been getting you all jobs as you can see by all these statistics that I’ll grossly exaggerate as I nod and smile real smart and presidentially.

Romney – You haven’t been getting any jobs, just ask that woman Mrs. Joann Redizzio of Wakaramazoo, Mississippi. She hasn’t had a job in over a year. And ask Mr. Stewart Gorrreno of Mercy, Ohio. I know these people. And Mr. Obama you are not getting them jobs.

Obama – Am too.

Romney – Are not!

Obama – You have NO plan how to get anyone jobs.

Romney – I have a five point plan!

Obama – I haven’t seen you make any points. You know what I’m saying America!

Romney – I’m just going to keep pointing this finger at you – Five Times until someone asks a new question.

Moderator – Can you be more specific on your plan, Mr. Romney?

Romney – I can be very specific about the specifics that I’ll be specifically speaking of. I just want to be clear about my specificity of the specifics.

Obama – You’re not saying anything.

Romney (Point! Point!) – You didn’t say anything about Benghazi!

Obama -I did!

Romney – You didn’t!!

I roll my eyes. They’re little kids in expensive suits playing a game of “My daddy’s stronger than your daddy!” What do we really learn in the debates anyhow?  Certainly, nothing about the issues. It’s kind of like watching my addictive Housewives shows; just good TV, with the purpose of putting on the drama to keep all those people with short attention spans entertained. Will Romney put extra grease in his hair? Will Joe Biden smile inappropriately or throw out an F-bomb? Will Obama’s head fall off from all the bobbing? How will they answer all those questions without answering a single one?  And that’s what it all comes down to. A lot of posturing and a lot of show with no tell. Because when the only goal in someone’s head is winning, the truth gets lost in the battle.

I hear my boys arguing in the other room. I go, as I am required to do by law, to break it up. It’s the same old game.

“What happened here, boys?”  I ask and they both point a finger at each other and start screaming heatedly at once. I nod. Well, of course, now it all makes perfect sense.

*This was the essay I almost used for this week’s Blogger Idol assignment. Go to www.writersarethenewrockstars.blogspot.com  now to see the one I did use and VOTE. 🙂

The best writing and stories are always at Yeah Write!! http://yeahwrite.me/80-open

Weight of my World

Weight of my World

I just did it moments ago. I do it every Friday morning. It’s generally before 7 am and I’m naked. I pee first, then close my eyes and mentally prepare. I tell myself, “It’s going to be good. It’s going to be okay.” Then, cringing with fear, I step on the scale.

No, I’m not going to tell you what it says. I may be confessional, but I have boundaries, people. But honestly, the number doesn’t really matter (except to me of course, where it HUGELY matters), what matters is how my entire mood changes by 7:01am. Depending on that flat glass surface with a digital screen, I’m either fabulous or frumpy. Happy or miserable.

Friday after Friday, I’d cringe, exhale as much breath out of my body and step. Often, the number is happy, smiling up at me. But lately, it’s been two to three pounds up – and when it’s up, I am most certainly down.

Three pounds may not seem like a big deal, but it is to me, or to anyone in my house who has to deal with my cranky, fat ass. Don’t judge me too harshly. I grew up surrounded by the body disorder disease – my mother has it, my aunt has it, my cousins have it. It seemed to affect every female member in my family.  Only my tall, skinny cousin seemed immune, living on a diet of Oreo cookies and chocolate bars, until well after her third child was born. Then, she too, succumbed.

I remember once, as a young girl, noting my mother’s strange skin color. “Carrots.” She explained. “It’s all the carrots.” I don’t want to know how many carrots you have to eat before you start to turn into one, but my mom was well on her way. I think she tried living on broccoli as well, but she always looked better in orange.

So after weeks of seeing a number that used to be reserved for “I had better be pregnant,” I did what anyone would do – I stopped going on the scale.  I know you thought I was going to say I went on a diet. Screw that. I eat basically vegetables and ice cream, and exercise a solid five days a week.  But something had to go, and it was the scale.

I had always been amazed by people who just ate without fear of the scale. Now I was one of them, and for the first few weeks, not having to see the number eased my mind somewhat. I felt a little more carefree, my clothes fit and for the first time in my memory, I wasn’t my scale’s bitch.  It was revelatory. It was enough to make you want to celebrate! With cake!

As you might guess, my celebratory liberation ended as soon I began to feel that subtle tightening around my waist, my favorite jeans no longer my favorite. I knew, but I didn’t want to believe. So I gathered my courage, got naked, exhaled and stepped. It was a big step, and even though I was no longer happy, at least I knew where I stood. 2lbs fatter than the fat that made me shun the scale. Damn.

As I contemplated my next steps – no more peanut butter, two cups of ice cream a day instead of three – a funny thing happened, I got used to the new number. My old fat became my new average. I hated it, but accepted it in the way I accepted another load of laundry, annoyed but resigned. I didn’t know what to make of this development. For a long while I became depressed, not at the number any longer, but that I had given up and accepted a newer version of myself – an older, fatter one.

Twenty odd years at the same weight (give or take those same up and down five pounds), and I will forever teeter on the edge of weight anxiety. I am always afraid Friday morning when I step on that scale, but I’ve learned my lesson. I will not cover my eyes like a two-year old. I will step. Knowing is better than living in denial. My coping skills, if not my body image, have strengthened over the years. I am more okay with who I am than I ever was. Even though my body is a little softer, I’ve got a tougher skin.

Besides, there’s always next Friday.

Love You Forever

The room swelled with people, some talking and hugging, others laughing and shoving deli meat sandwiches in their mouths. It was a party, except the guest of honor was dead.

We were at our friends’ Aiden and Alyssa’s house to pay a Shiva call for Aiden’s mother who had just passed. A year and half ago, she had been diagnosed with a blood melanoma. Until recently, she had not shown any real symptoms or signs of being sick. The doctors said that it was treatable and until the other day, it had been. She was there in the morning when they drove to the hospital, but 12 hours later driving back, she was gone. Just like that.

At the house, we chatted amiably with many people, about many things, but only very briefly touched upon the reason we were there. Aiden held it together admirably and everyone was relieved to follow suit and pretend. There’s nothing about death and final goodbyes that doesn’t create instant discomfort and clueless awkwardness for those bearing witness. So we ate little cookies and ignored the elephant in the room, or in this case, the small, sweet blonde mother and grandmother who wasn’t.

Now that I’m over 40, I keep running into this problem in life; it’s called death, and no matter how I try, there’s no getting away from it. It seems, and I never actually realized this until my late 30’s, but people die. Yes! I know. I was shocked as well. Of course, I know people die. I’m not an idiot. Lucille Ball is obviously no longer with us, or Dick Clark or Patrick Swayze or Farrah Fawcett, but somehow, when people I knew actually died, it totally threw me for a loop. Not just grandparents, but friends. Young people who were supposed to have their whole lives ahead of them, apparently, did not. They died of unnatural causes at unnatural ages. And now I seem to be at the age where parents start dying. I am not happy with this!

When I got home that evening, I gave my mom who was babysitting, an extra hug and ran up to do the same to my boys. They were almost ready for bed, and by almost I mean, jumping around in their underwear giggling like hyenas. I corralled them all into bed and Michael, my middle child, pushed a book in my hand. “Read this, Mommy.”

“Of course.” I said automatically, but when I looked down I wished I hadn’t.

“Love You Forever” by Robery Munsch. My book nemesis. Someone had given me this book when my oldest was born and I cried like a baby from beginning to end. Back then, I blamed my hormones and new-mom status, but returning to the book two years later, the same thing happened. A few years after that, I tried again, and still could not make it through without breaking down. I have successfully avoided reading the book for over three years, and tonight, fresh from a Shiva call, it was in my hands again. “Baby, let’s read something different.” I tried.

“This is the book that makes you cry, right?” Michael taunted, his elfin face smiling mischievously.

How did the little rat know that?  “Maybe.” I said defensively. “But I just think you should pick something else. It’s a baby book.”

“I want to see if you cry.”

Oh, a challenge. Bring it on. “Fine.” I agreed, secretly steeling myself. I knew exactly what this book was and I was prepared. I could make it through I told myself and started reading.

I barely began, and I knew it was over. Tears rolled down my face and my voice quivered as I read the poem that threaded through the story of a mother’s never-ending love, “I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, As long as I’m living, My baby you’ll be.” My extremely sensitive children cracked up laughing as I struggled to finish. By the end, I was a complete mess. My boys loved it. “Again!” they all squealed as I tried to control my heaving.

Exhausted from my emotional evening, I tucked the boys in; snuggling a little longer and hugging a little tighter. The book’s poem played over and over in my mind; its theme penetrating every sappy bone in my body. Even thinking about it now with the book safely tucked away in between a hundred others, hopefully never to be pulled out again, I can feel the tears in me rise. From the moment they are born, our babies are everything. Even when they grow and go, a mother’s heart goes with them, but there’s only so far it can go. Poor Aiden. Poor Aiden’s mommy. Poor everyone.

Damn. I hate that book.

Separation Anxiety – For Mommy

Separation Anxiety – For Mommy

I crouch down to speak more directly into the teary face of my sweet-cheeked four year-old. “Okay, so first you’ll go in the playground, then you’ll collect some sticks, bake a cake and then mommy comes to get you! You’re going to have so much fun.”

He screws up his face unconvinced, then picks up my shirt and sticks his head underneath.

“Julius, honey. I’ll be back so soon.”

“How soon?” His muffled voice asks my belly.

“So fast!

He pokes his head out. “Five minutes?”

“Well not five minutes, but close.” He can’t tell time. Five minutes. Three hours. Same thing.

He sniffles and looks skeptically around the familiar class. I feel him coming round.

“Remember, you’ll play in the playground, search for sticks, bake a cake, then mommy. Hey, like Dora!” He noticeably perks.

“Playground. Sticks. Cake. Mommy.” He gets it and nods, but still remains fixed to my side. I walk, with him attached like we’re in a potato sack race, to where some of his friends are building with blocks. Immediately, he drops to the floor and starts playing. Deep inward mommy sigh of relief. I kiss the top of his head goodbye, and he immediately stops his play to hug me vigorously.

“Kiss.” He orders and I bend down so his little lips can kiss me. “One more hug!” He squeezes the pee out of me, and returns to his blocks. I’m at the door, when I feel him behind me again. “One more hug!” And again we squeeze together, before we are ripped apart by the necessities of normal everyday life. He is four. It is only just beginning.

As I walk out the door and leave him playing contently with his friends, I am the one sniffling.

Which I realize is ridiculous. He is my third child. I’ve done this before, many times, yet each time, I still have the same pang of regret leaving. I even still feel that way watching the bus pull away with my older ones.  “Have fun!” I wave them off with some relief, yet my brain is a jumble of mixed emotions. The most glaring is the vision of the horror movie bus driving off with the children waving innocently from the window. I can’t stand to think of that one, but somehow it’s always there. More reasonably (I think) is that I mourn the fact that they are big kids now and can go off on the big bus to lives outside of my little bubble. While I joyously take my few hours of freedom, it definitely makes me sad. I know, I’m crazy.  No, it’s not crazy. Okay, now I sound crazy.

They say that it’s good for the children to separate and socialize and I’m sure they’re right, especially at the ages of my older boys who are seven and ten, but as I watch my four year-old son bravely hold it together and others in his class falling to pieces, I just have to wonder. Is it really good for them? They always say that once the parents leave, the kids generally settle into their routine and play happily. I believe that to be true. Either they’re happy and enjoying  playing with their friends or they’ve submitted to the inevitable. They have no control, their parents are gone and there is simply nothing they can do but play with their play dough and wait.

I leave the pre-school and head straight to the gym, where I sweat my ass off in spin class. The whole time my brain is working harder than my body. I go through my to-do list. I edit an essay in my head and actually come up with an amazing opening paragraph which I spend at least three songs trying to memorize. And I think about my kids getting bigger and more independent. I’m so proud of them, and protective of them and in love with them, that I admit I’m a bit over sensitive to their growing up and me not being the most important person to them. Oh no – it’s one of my spin revelations. It happens sometimes when I’m sweating in this dark room with loud music with nothing but my own thoughts. It’s me. Damn. It’s me. My boys are doing fine. It’s me. I’m the one who has to grow up and learn how to let go.

Later, when I pick up Julius from Pre-K, his eyes twinkle as he jumps into my arms, but the hug is quick. One of his friends behind me is playing with two lego men, and he leaves me to investigate. My open arms are empty. My youngest boy is off and running. It’s going to take every ounce of effort not to chase after him.

Thar she Blows!

I wasn’t prepared for his attack, coming off the week in the hospital where he lay in a drug-induced delusion. I got lazy and soft, enjoying conversations like, “How are you feeling today, dad?”

“I like horses.”

“Oh. Okay then. What do you like about horses?”

“2 o’clock. Definitely at 2 o’clock.”

After a bit, my conscience did get the better of me and I alerted one of the nurses.

“Uh, do you realize my father isn’t making any sense?”

She looked at me blankly. “What do you mean? He made perfect sense this morning.”

“Uh, I don’t think so, because when I spoke with him on the phone last night, he was out of it.”

She stomped into the room.

“Evan! Do you know where you are?” My father playfully hid his face with his hand. “I’ll give you a choice Evan. Are you home or in the hospital or are you at the zoo?”

My father smiled, almost coquettishly, and affirmatively answered. “HOME!”

I looked at her, trying not to appear smug. “I’ll call the doctor,” she said. Good idea.

The doctor came, took one look and said, “He’s zonked. I don’t think he was like this yesterday.”

Oh contraire, doctor.

So they lowered his medicine, and over the next couple of days, I saw some improvement in coherency; then the irritation started creeping back in, until ultimately he returned to his generally miserable, suffering self who above all hated to be in the hospital with people telling him what to do and where he couldn’t go. His disposition was worse but he was getting better.

The doctors informed me that they intended to release him to rehab. Since he had gone to the hospital with nothing but the monkey on his back, I needed to do a little shopping to get him some extra clothes. As I dialed his room, my fingers were crossed that the call would be quick and painless. Maybe a nurse would be with him, and then I’d have to call back later. I could only hope, but hope had failed me before.

“Hi, Dad.”

“When am I getting out of here?”

Uh oh, not a good start.

“I don’t know. You’ve gotten much better. The doctors are saying that you should go to a rehabilitation facility for a week or so to regain your strength.”

“Oh so you’re in charge, making all my decisions. I don’t have any say.”

“Uh, no. You can do whatever you like. I’m relaying what the doctor’s say.”

“I want to go home. I need to think about what I have to do.”

Gritting teeth. “What you need to do is get yourself a little healthier and then go home.”

“You just want to ship me off! Why is every idea I have wrong?!”

Anger rising to intolerable levels, “If you go home, you will lose your benefits to get into the rehab place. Plus, you are not fully recovered and they would take better care of you.”

“So you’re setting me up to fail because I want to go home and MOMMY won’t let me!”

That was it.

I exploded; the words shooting from my mouth like firecrackers. Expletives that one shouldn’t say to anyone, much less one’s sick father, but out they came. F’n crazy. F’n on drugs. F’n ruining my life. On and on I went. Bad daughter. Bad moment.

I took a deep breath. Then I took another. There was silence on the other end of the phone.

“Dad?” I asked, shaky from my emotions and outburst.

“I’m here.” He answered, smaller since I had cut him down.

“I’m sorry.”

He whimpered a bit.

“Dad, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lose it like that. I was just…”

He cut me off. “I’ll go to the rehab.”

“Really?” I was taken aback. “I mean good. I know you hate it, but it’s for the best.”

“I know and it’s not your fault. We’re in a bad place. I mean, I’m in a bad place and you’re stuck. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” I agreed, feeling all my energy drain. “It’s really not good. But tomorrow, it might be better.”

There it was again, hope.

“You sure can curse.” He almost laughed.

“So it seems.” I agreed with equal amusement. “Don’t make me do it again.” I teased.

But we both knew that he would.

Laugh Till You Cry

Almost in tears. Hate my father – scratch that – hate who my father is – better. He’s got one foot off a cliff and wants me to pull him down to safety, as usual. And as usual, I probably pushed the other one off instead, with my words, which were as frustrated as he is. “Get help!” But that’s why he’s calling me.

Breathe deeply. Think about mountains in Tibet, waterfalls, rainbows, ice cream. Need to call him back. His cell phone rang in the middle of our heated conversation. He was on an edge, his voice high with emotion. I won’t say from the drugs he is on.  “No-one cares. I’m worthless. It’s all wrong.”

“Is there something I can do?” There’s nothing I can do. “Maybe we should call Dr. R.”  Dr. R is his psychiatrist. There’s nothing he can do.

He snaps like Hyde awaked from his long sleep. “I wasn’t asking for advice!”

Uh oh. I automatically open the freezer. “I wasn’t really offering any. I was just trying to help.”

Him, yelling, “You can stop trying to help! I wasn’t asking for help! Why do you always think I’m asking for help?!”

My heart beating with anxiety. -“Ooookay.” I wish there was someone else he could call.

That’s when his cell rang, which he tried to pick up, but somehow picked me up again instead. I know, two different phones, don’t expect things to make sense. Final words, “I can’t believe I screwed up again!” Sad, pitiful, and the phone goes dead.  Tibet. Rainbows. Ice cream.

For me, It’s been over 20 years of pain. Over 20 years being the daughter of a man in pain. A sad man in pain. A suffering man in pain. The pain is in his body. The pain is in his head. The pain is in his heart.

We speak often. Too often for me, not often enough for him, and the calls are all desperation and need, cries for help and cries for attention.

Earlier today, he was grappling with his dwindling legacy. His fear of being considered a drug addict. Of what would be on his tombstone. For decades, he reinforced to me that he wanted his tombstone to say, “He rode the white horse.” He has quite the image of himself, romantic and dramatic, quite like him. Of course, for me at this point, the white horse is muddied, and after slumping over for a while, its rider fell off and not with a quick thump. He fell off howling, with his foot stuck in the stirrup and is still being dragged behind.

He casually mentions that if they found him at the base of a building that he wouldn’t have jumped, that it would have been an accident. You would think this mingling of tombstones and vague suicide talk would have me calling 911, but red flags barely get notice anymore. Those flags need to be shooting rocket fire to gather any real attention.

“So you now want your tombstone to say, “He didn’t jump?” I joked and he did something of a laugh. With a father like mine you look for levity wherever you can, even in suicide talk. “Yeah,” he says, the mood automatically lighter. “That works.”

In that one second, it all changed. It was better. “He didn’t jump off the white horse” He adds, “He was pushed!” And then, he’s laughing.

Where there is humor, there is hope. I’ll call him back now. We both need to laugh.