To Laugh or Cry - Part 2

The family conference call took place and was reasonably successful. Eight of us took turns explaining our perspective about how aging sucks; my 29-year old nephew being the most coherent. Meals on Wheels starts on Monday 3 times/week, and maybe my Dad will let them past the front door.

I’m now in San Diego, sleeping in a private room at a youth hostel close to Ocean Beach, complete with aging surfers, yogurt smoothies, and happy dogs running on the sand. The hostel has a giant monitor lizard basking in the common area. I’m hiding out here until Tuesday. It’s a friendly and clean place for $40/night. I love hostels.

I drive to my parents’ house each day at 11 am, which is when they wake up. They live in a soul-less suburb with giant RVs and many fast food choices. My mother is going deaf and blind, screaming at my father constantly because she is having anxiety attacks. My father sleeps a lot, partly from being on Vicodin after his recent surgery and partly to escape my mother. I drove him 20 miles today to get ink cartridge refills for his ancient printer, just so he could get a break.

I have been trying to scrub decades of dirt and dust, with minimal success. Since my brother tried to vacuum last week, I chose other challenges. Their toilet broke this morning – according to my father, because my mother plugs it up with paper. According to my mother, because my father keeps forgetting to throw bleach into it to kill the tree roots. They keep each other alive by goading each other. Their daily highlight is getting the mail and perusing the coupons for deals they will never use.

I was keeping it together, stoically running errands and pretty much ignoring their symbiotic routine. Until I talked to the neighbor who drives my Dad to the grocery store each week. She told me that he teases her about coloring her hair, telling her “you should let it go silver like my daughter, who is proud and beautiful.” Then I lost it, because he would never directly say that to me. That nice lady had no idea why I ran out of her living room.

I tried to go swimming to revert back to the womb, however the local pool was closed. My sanity was saved by having dinner with a friend, he gave me a big hug and we drank lots of wine. Tomorrow morning I’m going to walk the pier to clear my head, drive out to Santee, and start the fun all over again.

See photo of my "survival pack" - whistles for my parents to blow at each other, a bell to ring instead of yell, and a panic button that emits a howling scream (for me).