Читать книгу NORMAL Doesn't Live Here Anymore - Barb BSL Owen - Страница 20

The process of beginning to take control of someone’s life is not pleasant. Even though my parents admitted the need for assistance in order to stay in their own home, they were not anxious to have outsiders intrude in their lives. Especially my mother would have been quite happy to have me, and only me, fill her days. Instinctively I knew that I must explore options beyond myself.

Monday morning dawned, ushering in the search for help for my parents. If they were to stay at home, they would need help—lots of help, I thought. I began leafing through the phone book yellow pages. One phone call led to another. Referrals and multiple lists filled my notebook as I began exploring various possibilities. Time seemed to speed up as many options confused me.

Exhausted Teresa, after staying with Mom and Dad for a few more days, decided to go back to her own life leaving behind little doubt about her intention to avoid involvement in our parents’ lives, if possible. Always reminding anyone who would listen, she droned on and on about how difficult and tiring it was to be with our parents. Catching me alone, in spite of my efforts to dodge her, my sister grabbed the opportunity to complain, “I am completely worn out! I wish you had the ability to understand how tiring it is to be here, but I doubt that will ever happen. I’ve just got to get back home. On top of everything else, I have a drive to another state ahead of me and I’m so exhausted I don’t know if I can make it that far!” Even though I thought having her around somehow eased some of the growing responsibility in dealing with our parents, once my sister left, I realized that she added a significantly stressful component to the mix and I was glad she was gone. I convinced myself that dealing with Mom and Dad’s situation by myself was easier than answering to or trying to avoid my sisters.

Before departing, Exhausted Teresa put the finishing touches on a report she and Sanctimonious Shirley had written. Carefully placed on my parents’ kitchen table where I couldn’t miss it, the epistle was full of their enumerated observations and instructions; how to sabotage my father’s car so he could no longer drive, hiding his keys just in case he figured out what I had done, and calling their various doctors to discuss the number of medications Mom and Dad were taking every day which obviously needed to be pared down. I was to find quality help for them—people who could be trusted. Last, but certainly not least, they created a detailed list of expectations for me, including errand running, grocery shopping, and anything else they could think of that ran on for pages and pages, typed and single spaced.

After reading bits of the sisters’ drivel, I decided not to waste any of my time with their trivia. I tore it into dozens of pieces and left it in the trash. The sisters felt relieved by the wisdom of their words. I felt nothing but irritation and loneliness.

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