The Motherly Affection

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Story time!

I’ve mentioned several times about my mother’s insanity (I’ll add links when I’m not on my tablet and it isn’t all wonky — but if ya’ll read my blog, you probably know already).

I talked to my mom for the first time in five months last yesterday. I had forgotten about it because I was panic attacking about other shitty people.

Back in August, my Nana Lynda was in the hospital and had been for the past six weeks and had bushed elbows with death a few times.

I drove the four and a half hours to see my nana (read: family).And it was a miserable fucking trip.I started to catch a sinus thing and my doctor had put me on antibiotics. So, I was already sickly.

My previous trips always result in me coming back sick because they’re a bunch of goddamn chain smokers.

It was kind of novel actually going there sick.

I generally always take that friday and monday off. The driving kills my hips, even with an ass pillow.

When I made it in, everything was hunky dory. Went with Dad to the hospital, met up with my Aunt Laurie, had dinner. I did have to wear a paper mask because I was still germy.

The weekend went pretty well. I remember we were supposed to go to Daytona Beach on Sunday, but got rained out. I felt pretty poorly that day, so I curled up in the guest bed and Netflixed on  my tablet with my Alkaseltzer cold and flu, and Afrin so I could breathe.

Then came the comments:

“Are you addicted to that stuff?”

“No, I’m sick.”

“Jesus, Carolanne, are you gonna be lazy all day?”

“Yes, because I dont feel well.”

Not to mention, my inhaler was my prized posession that weekend due to all the friggin cancer smoke.

Monday rolls around. My aunt offered to cut my hair. I was still feeling poorly; not very fast moving. I needed to shower so Aunt Laurie didnt have to wash my hair. My mom gave me a bunch of bullshit about how she was cleaning house and how my presense was a huge inconvenience in her life. Whatever.

So I got lost driving to her salon. Managed to get my hair cut. Came back and my mom went through all my luggage and packed it, saying I’m a huge fucking slob…. blah blah woof woof. I literally had my dirty clothes in a separate pile on the floor so as to not mix them with my clean clothes in my suitcase. Yeah, she mixed them together.  My meds that I need to function — my albuterol inhaler, levothyroxine, sertraline, vitamin D…. mixed the fuck in there. Dirty shoes too (usually plastic bag those).

I was pretty livid.

A.) I was a guest staying in the guest room. If my crap was strewn around the living room because I’d been sleeping on the couch, that’d be a different story. And then, you’d just move it out of the way, not pack it up.

B.) I’m almost 30. As a parent, her permission to go through my shit stopped at 18 and/or me not living there. Period.

A shouting match with my mother ensued.

So, a sobbing mess, I went back to the hospital and hung out with my nana until it was time to go. I felt bad putting all that shit on her, but when I came in red eyed, her exact words were “what did your mom do this time?” I sobbed it all out to my poor sick, bedridden in the hospital nana. But she hugged me and told me I was a good person and all those wonderful things that grandmothers do.

I had planned on meeting an old friend for dinner in Lake City on the way back home. So when I knew I could make the times line up, I left. Got stuck in traffic in Gainesville on 75, got of on one of the south exits and got stuck in worse traffic on the back roads.

Finally made it to Lake City and got cheered up by this beautiful little flower.

And the next day I was sicker than I had been when I first left even WITH taking antibiotics while I was there.

So, yeah… five months without talking to my mom. It took my dad a full week to call after the fight. He didn’t bring it up — just shot the breeze.

Aunt Laurie was blamed for instigating the fight. Which is completely untrue. I sent her a text apologizing for her name being dragged into this and my word that she wasn’t involved in any way shape or form. We are kind of both black sheeps in the family. I have an IQ above 130 and a bachelors degree and most of a masters degree and have never been to jail (knock on wood), which is an aberation in my family. She dreams big and refuses to accept less than — she was given so much shit for going to cosmetology school at 39, then at 43 going to nursing school to be an LPN. The negative commentary is along the lines of blah blah you’re too old, student loans, time, you’re too old, work, you’re too old, selfishness, blah blah, you’re too old, blah blah. She’d gotten the idea of going to nursing school when my nana was in the hospital and she was helping bathe and care for her. Now that she’s back home, she still helps bathe Nana and changes her ostomy bag, cleans her fistula wound, and changes out her TPN. Aunt Laurie asked if mom wanted her to teach her how to do all that. Mom refused. Mom’s a friggin licensed/certified medical assistant and refuses to help with the care of nana.

Unfathomable.

So every night, when my aunt gets done with LPN classes or cutting hair work, she comes in at 9pm sharp and cares for my nana.

So yeah, off tangent… I talked to mom yesterday. Me and my dad had been on speaking terms the whole time. I had called him a few days ago about the stupid malfunctioning tire pressure sensor in my car thats on the glitch. He told me my Nana Rosie’s had to be replaced and it was $130ish, and to just check it manually. Which I do anyway, but it’s nice to not have my dash light up while I’m in the middle of 5 pm capital city road rage.

So, I called dad to tell him it was working again for now. And mom picked up. So we talked. Told her about stress at work. Told her about the horrible transvaginal ultrasound I had to get on Tuesday, about my tire pressure sensor, and getting an IUD. Conversation went on about 15 minutes.

It was kind of nice. I’d missed talking to my mom. And I know she has been the protogenitor of a lot of crazy shit in my life, but I do love her. She is my mom, after all. But I will, obviously, curate conversation topics and stick to the mundane. I was told that I need to sit down and talk with her about all the bullshit, but I can’t do it just yet. It’s still fresh.

Like telling S.O. about panic attacks, I usually can’t talk about them for a week or so after they happen. Which is a great source of irritation for him, because he wants to help.

I think I managed to twist his arm into coming and seeing me this weekend. It is a holiday weekend afterall.

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