Change and risk are the same thing

This is going to be a deep, dark, ugly truthful post. So if you think I'm sunny and funny and you like to read about the funny things dogs and husbands and six-year-olds do, you should stop reading now. 

I just got off the phone with my mother. I usually try to text her or e-mail her so I don't have to actually speak to her. I don't know if it's her insanity or her disease, but having conversations with her is very, very difficult. I usually find something else to do while I talk to her because she will go off on a tangent and while I'm waiting for her to finish or come to a point, I need something to do. I opened my Solitaire game before I dialed her number.  

That's not completely fair. In her defense, I have seen her brain. Her neurologist showed me her MRI. Remember how the guy on Quantum Leap always complained that the space-time travel was making his brain like Swiss cheese? My mother's brain is literally like Swiss cheese. The plaques that the disease multiple sclerosis leaves on her brain make looking at her brain like looking at a polka-dotted piece of fabric.  But, enough neurons seem to be firing to allow her to be mean and still alive, so...there you go. (Wait, was that a tangent? Is my brain Swiss cheesing?)

Anyway, in today's conversation, I learned that Fred*, the husband of mom's BFF from high school, Fiona,* died. Like I care. (I called to let her know I would come over later to look at her computer.) Mom is writing a letter to their daughter, Jennifer, recounting the evening when Fiona met Fred. That seems sweet, I guess, if you ignore the fact that Fred left Fiona in an ugly and public way for another woman at least 15 years ago. But rather than put energy into mentioning that, I said, "That's nice," and put the red queen on the black king. 

"Fiona was with me when I met your daddy, too, but I won't tell Jennifer that story," she said. Yeah, I said, happy to uncover the ace of hearts. And, then, she launched into the story. Of when my parents met. Like I want to hear the story of the entrance of the sorry man who would come to stain both our lives with his alcoholism, his addiction to porn, his sexual abuse of me, his sexual abuse of my aunts, and his philandering. The man whose caprices she allowed so that I had no college fund and she had to work her ass off to keep food on the table. But, by following his dreams, he was able to "be his own boss." Loosely translated, that means he had a broken down radiator repair shop where he could drink and smoke his days away and not even be bothered by silly things like customers. But, again, I digress.

I have told my mother repeatedly that I do not want to hear happy tales about my father. There are no happy tales, as far as I'm concerned. She stubbornly refuses to stop. She says, "He lived. He existed. I can't just pretend he didn't exist. And, we had happy times." 

Really? Yeah, I guess we were happy when I was really little. Oh, but then I remember that she had already caught him peeping at her sister Nancy while she changed clothes. I just found this out a few years ago. She already knew things were not right when I was a year old! And she stayed! She said she thought it would get better. 

I guess we were happy that summer my uncle and aunt (my mother's littlest brother and baby sister Susan) came to stay with us. Oh, except that he started sneaking into Susan's room to fondle her and "catching" her in the bathtub. Which, again, she knew about at the time and she didn't leave! Or call the police! Yeah, I just found this out a few years ago, too. 

So were those the happy times? Or how about when he finally started targeting me? Was it ever happy after that? Don't answer that. Because I'm afraid I won't be able to control my reaction.

I'm thinking all this while I'm waving the phone away from my ear. I don't want to know the story, but I do want to catch when she finishes her story so I can say, "Yeah." 'Cos I'd hate to hurt her feelings by making her think I didn't listen. What is wrong with me, people?

After I managed to be monosyllabic enough to get her off the phone, I texted my BFF. I said that sitting through one of my mother's stories is so painful that, "It's like an assault." And then I realized...it *is* an assault. It's the only thing she can do to me. She's angry about the fact that I avoid her and ignore her and I'm moving and Lord only knows what else, so she punches me with her words. My God. I have got to save me.

My shrink and all of my friends and my husband--in other words, people who genuinely love me--want me to walk away. Just walk away and change my phone number. My mother hints that there are family members who think that I am terrible for how I behave toward her--I don't call, I don't write. I have yet to slap her, even though when she tells me I've gained so much weight I "don't look like yourself anymore" I do imagine it. I have decided that I really don't give a shit what they think. 

But why not walk away? Well, as my friend Ashley told me, "You're better than that." Yes, I guess that's it. But then I wonder if I'm just acting out my mother's martyrdom. I learned from the best.

God, I would love to walk away. I've walked away before. The only reason we still talk is because after a blessed year of not having her in my life, she called. She had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. And I didn't think it was right to not be there for her. 

What I didn't know is that the woman who repeatedly told me to "buck up" during my childhood, would not buck up. Only for a short time did she take the treatments that would have slowed progression of the disease. It was too much trouble to ask my flaky aunt to give her the shots, the shots hurt, they made bumps under her skin...there were a million excuses. So her disease progressed rapidly and when I realized she had no qualms about asking me to wipe her ass, well, that's when I said, oh, no. I ain't doin' that. 

I didn't know that she wouldn't take any steps to lessen the impact of her disease on herself or me. I won't go into that because you don't need to hear about my mother's bowel and bladder problems and her hemorrhoids. But, take my word for it, she won't take care of what can be taken care of because, well, I don't know why. That's the part of the story where she bursts into tears and says, "I can't talk about it." 

When I stopped coming to her place every day and made sure she had attendants to service her, oddly enough, she was able to wipe her own ass. Funny how that works. Yeah, she had me coming over to her house every day because her wound care physician was a male and while she liked him well enough, she didn't want to be left alone with him. She wanted me to protect her. I don't think she ever understood why that pissed me off beyond belief.

So, I'm at a crossroads. I could walk away. I could leave her to her own devices. Alienate my family, yes, but live without ever hearing another story about my father. Is that a change I'm willing to make? A risk I'm willing to take? I'm thinking about it.

*Names here are changed to protect the innocent.

Hodie is in for some change

The move to Baltimore is proceeding. John is leaving Wednesday in the car to drive cross-country with the dogs. Finn and I are flying out next Saturday. My sister-in-law has volunteered to keep our dogs until we find our forever home. She has a dog named Bosch and a cat named Violet. I know that Charlie will make the necessary adjustments because she's Charlie and she's the smartest dog I've ever had. But Hodie. Well, Hodie is damaged.

When I adopted him, I was told that he was in the system because his owner was in jail. Whoever had Hodie could not destroy his sweet nature, but he certainly gave it his best try. It has taken five years to get Hodie to come out of the gate without peeing. Even though he knows that he's going on his beloved and ever-memorable walk.

I chose Hodie because of a glance at that sweet nature. We were not in the market for a dog. I was by myself and we have agreed getting a dog is not a decision you make by yourself. I was on my way to an appointment with my shrink and got tired of waiting at a light, so I cut through the PetSmart parking lot. I felt so guilty about cutting through the parking lot that I stopped at the store to show that I wasn't really cutting through. I was just going to get Charlie some bones, but I glanced, just glanced, at the dogs brought in by the humane society.

Hodie, whose name was then Boog, was kept in a cage with his brother, Elliot (The animated movie Open Season had come out the year before.)  Hodie was chewing on a squeaky toy. As I watched, Hodie spit out the toy and nosed it toward his brother who was staring into the distance, depressed. "Give me that dog," I said. And someone heard me. I will feel guilty about this until the day I die, but I separated Hodie and his brother. The humane society assured me that was o.k., but I've never felt right about it. But before I knew it, I was sitting in my shrink's office with a sleeping Hodie curled at my feet.

Yes, the shrink and I talked about how disrespectful it was to do this and how did I think the dog would fit in and...I believe I said, "Whatever. This is the sweetest dog I've ever seen."

Fortunately, everyone (everyone named John) fell in love with Hodie the minute they (he) laid eyes on him. John said that because I'd done this horrible thing, choosing this dog without consulting my partner, he was allowed to name the dog. And he christening him, Doggie Hodie. That's dog for Don Quixote.


Of course, my then 2-year-old loved him at first sight--that's how dogs and little boys work. We noticed further sweetness, but we also noticed strange behavior. He refused to come out of the gate whether beckoned or leashed. He was desperately afraid of John despite absolutely no threatening behavior on his part. Then there's the utter and complete devotion to me. Which, surprisingly, can be annoying. Hodie's my right hand man--if I reach out my right hand, he's under it. (Same for the left.)

I can't use the restroom alone. Of course, I don't sleep alone, but Hodie has to be touching me. If I'm away from the house, Hodie puts himself in his crate and doesn't come out until I return.


When I had surgery to implant my pacemaker, Hodie couldn't stand to be around me. He would sniff my wounds, cry and run away. That lasted about a week. Right now John has a scuffed knee from a fall in the driveway. Hodie sniffs it and cries every day. 

Even now, four years later, we still have unexplained fearful behavior. Just yesterday as the rest of the family sat in the living room we heard Hodie crying from the bedroom. We called and called for him to no avail. Finally I got up to see what the problem was. There was a broom in the doorway. "Hodie, you can come out." And he hopped over the broom and came with me.There are times when he's sprawled in the floor, sleeping. He'll yelp, jump up and run away to hide in his crate. What *is* that?

Hodie loves ears and toes. All dogs love toes, of course. Charlie has her own toe song "She's Charlie, she's Charlie, she's very, very soft, she's Charlie, she's Charlie, she'll lick your toes off." That's from when Finn was a baby. She never cared about our grown-up toes and she really doesn't show any interest in Finn's six year old toes. Hodie, however, sniffs all toes extensively every day, sometimes several times a day. It's an insistent invasive sniffing. Same for the ears. All the ears. In fact, that's how he wakes up Finn. First the ears then the toes. And Hodie somehow keeps the coldest wettest nose you've ever known. How he does that we do not know.

Hodie has a toy and when he brings it to you you are expected to reach for it, but you can't have it. No, no, no, you can't have it. He likes to play mouse under the covers. If you put your hand under the covers and move it around, Hodie goes nuts. Great fun.

When Hodie goes outside, he has to go with Charlie. Charlie will scratch the door loudly and insistently until you open the damn door, dammit. Hodie will not bark to remind you that he is out there. He has spent entire nights outside because he won't bark or scratch. He just goes and curls up on the wicker sofa on the porch with his paw over his nose. He's ever so grateful when you let him back in.

So, that is Hodie. I am worried about him and any changes this change my wreak.