This Is ... Was ... Me

I posted last week about my Dad and his surgery and said that, while I love my Dad, I also like him. That may seem odd, but I know people who love their parents, or siblings, or, well, even their spouses, but don't actually like them.

I like my Dad ... but that wasn't always the case.

My father joined the Air Force out of high school and within a few years he was sent to England where he was stationed for a while; it was there that he met a young woman, the daughter of a Colonel, who would become his wife and my mother.

After Dad and Mom married, and after my sister was born, Dad was reassigned from England to Mississippi ... talk about culture shock! But, something good came out of that assignment ... me! I was born in Mississippi and a few months later Dad was being sent to California, so we loaded up the car and Dad and Mom pulled a forty-foot red-and-white trailer from the Gulf Coast to the Golden State where my Dad changed things up ...

Since he had a wife and two children he wasn't so keen on the constant moving required of military families so he arranged for something different; he asked for, and received, the chance to stay in California, keeping his family in the same house, his kids, including my brother who was born in California, attending the same schools and having the same friends. My Dad would go TDY... Temporary Duty ... for several months at a time, but the family would stay in one place.

It was a nice thing for my Dad to do for his family, but ... he was away a lot and as a wee lad I missed him very much. And so I remember crying sometimes at night because my Dad wasn't home and my Mother comforting me; sure we would send messages ... tape recorded ones because this was way back in the last century ... but I missed my Dad and sometimes it hit me hard, especially at night.

But he did come home, and he did retire from the Air Force and so he was around more and naturally I began to resent him for that though I didn’t know why at the time.

I remember being a Senior in high school and a group of friends and I wanted to go to Disneyland on a break and at the dinner table one night I asked my Mother if I could go; I explained all the details, the flight, the hotel, who was going, where we were staying ... and asked, again, if I could go.

My Mom said, "Ask your Dad."

I replied, "Can you ask him?"

My Father was sitting at the table with us.

Yes, I acted as though he wasn't even there; it still breaks my heart to think that I did that.

"You ask him."

Years later, after I'd allegedly grown-up, and moved out of the house, I was talking with friends and telling both these stories and a friend suggested that the reason for the second story, and why I maybe didn't like my Dad so much was because I was so angry for him leaving me as a child and going on TDY.

Wow; that hurt ... because it rang true.

The next morning I called my parent's house and when Mom answered I asked to speak to my Dad; my Mom asked what was wrong because, you know, I wanted to talk to my Dad so it must be bad. But Dad got on the phone and I said I was coming up to talk ... they lived about an hour-and-a-half from me ... and would he be home.

He said he would, and so in a couple of hours I was at their house. My Mom looked pale and nervous when I said I needed to talk to Dad first, and alone. He and I went outside and after some stammering and stalling I finally told him about my memories ... crying that he wasn't home and how, somehow, I held onto those memories and it turned into a dislike for him, and the feeling that maybe he might not be there for me when I needed so I wouldn't get too close.

I won't go into the whole conversation but we talked and talked and we apologized, me for being a brat and kind of nasty toward him, and he apologized for, yes, doing his job ... something that needed no apology. He’d done what he thought was best for his family and, still, that hurt one of his children.

But our relationship changed on a dime that day; I had always loved my Dad because he was my dad and he was, and is, a great one, but on that day I finally came to like my Dad.

Thanks for listening ...

Grudgingly

Well, it's been a couple of weeks now since The Friend sent the email about how I am not good enough for Carlos and it has me wondering about grudges. We've all had people say or do things to us that we don't like, that we may actually hate, and we get angry. But how long do you hold on to that anger? Can you tell yourself you've forgiven the indiscretion and move on, or do you forgive and yet not forget, so the tension is still there?

I think I fall into the latter. I have forgiven the friend; I've told her via email that I've forgiven her. But I still have no desire to speak with her yet. It isn't this intense I will never speak to you again kind of anger, it's more of a Meh kind of temperament.

I feel like she's turned into someone I don't know, someone that I've never known, so I have neither the need nor the desire to speak to her. I've told Carlos that I don't want this to affect his relationship with her, and I don't think it will. I think he was hurt by her words, but he is much more, not forgiving, but forgetting, than am I. I do know that if her words had made me angry I could have lashed out and it would have been over. But the words hurt....sticks and stones...like a punch to my gut, and I can still feel them when I breathe.

I'm not there yet. And wonder if I ever will be.

Chair Rails and Broom Handles

Oy! What a weekend!

I spent Friday night on the couch icing and heating the ankle. Laying on the couch with the ankle above my head...not behind my head, people.....above my head. I wrapped it. I massaged it. I lay it gently on a pillow.

Saturday, however, was worse. My ankle looked like a small animal had crawled under my skin and was making a nest there. It was swollen and throbbing, and I was Macaulay Culkin. Home alone? Carlos had a presentation to give that day, so I hobbled and hopped and limped from my bedroom to the living room. I love my house, but, really, did we need such a long hallway? I felt as though I'd crossed a couple of time zones from bed to sofa. Thankfully I wasn't a member of the Donner Party or all hell would have broken loose before we got to the mountains.

But I did discover one thing. Those blasted chair rails that we have in the hallway? The ones I want removed because, well, chair rails, in the hallway? They make lovely things to grasp onto as I went back and forth from back of the house to front of the house.

Once Carlos got home, I asked if he happened to stop and get me a crutch or cane. He suggested something that I could do with a crutch or cane, but then I had an idea. And I'd like you all to remember you heard it here first: Two words: Broom handle. Carlos got one from the garage and I used it like I was steering a boat through the canals of Venice.

So between the broom handle and the chair rails I was able to maneuver through the house all day Saturday. The broom handle also came in handy late Saturday night, because Mister Breathe Right started to snore. I must have nudged him three times and asked him to turn over, and three times he muttered that he wasn't snoring. Finally, I sat up, grabbed my broom handle and--no I didn't beat Carlos over the head--I went to the guest room.

Sunday, I stayed on the couch nearly all day, flopping one way with the ankle on pillows, flopping another with the ankle on a chair. Wrapping it. Unwrapping it. Icing it. Rubbing it. Cursing the Ankle God, I even took it back to the bathroom and stuck it into a tub full of steaming hot water and turned on the jets. That. Felt. Good.

And then Carlos gave me a treat. A box of Icy Hot Patches. I may not be good enough for him, but, man, does he clean my clock when he shows up with Icy Hot. Icy Hot; more icy than hot, really, but boy-oh-boy did those things make a difference. I even slept with two of them on and this morning I was able to walk without full use of my broom handle. I think, by the end of the day, or maybe tomorrow, the broom handle will go back to the garage.

I'll miss you, old friend.

Hurt

It's midnight in Smallville and I was in bed a few minutes ago, listening to Carlos Breathe Right, but I cannot sleep, so here I am.

I received an interesting email from Carlos' aunt, Gloria, who lives in Mexico City; those of you who've been here awhile may remember her as the aunt who had a, shall we say, unpleasant stay here last fall. She and Carlos fought and words were exchanged and the last thing she said to either of us is that we would never see her again.

Well, times change, and the wounds of that last visit have healed. Carlos and his aunt talk all the time, and she and I email back and forth. I was glad about that because she has been so very important in Carlos' life, and, with my arrival in his life, mine, too.

The email she sent was in response to an email a friend of ours in Miami had sent her. Gloria talked about the swine flu epidemic in Mexico, and how many places are closed, from churches to Burger King. She told us about people wearing the masks in the street, and how you can't find masks anywhere anymore, so the soldiers stand on street corners giving them away. She doesn't sound too worried, but she is taking every precaution.

But Gloria is less computer knowledgeable than either Carlos or myself, so she sent her response to our friend in Miami to us as well. The only problem is that in her response was the original email our friend had sent her.

This friend starts off telling Gloria about the wonderful weather in Miami, the cool breezes, the low humidity, the fragrance of the gardens around her house, and then, she says this:

"Carlos reminded me the other day that he and Bob have been together for about 8 years. (actually it's nine years) I can't believe it. I don't want to believe it. I still think that Bob is not good enough for Carlos, but after 8 years, I have stopped hoping. You know what they say: We can't change other people; we can only change ourselves."

I felt my face flush and my heart began beating so fast. i was so angry, and then disappointed, and finally hurt, that she would say something like that to a woman i consider my aunt as well. And I stared at the email for a long long time, wondering what to do.

Anger I can handle. I have a sharp wicked tongue and know how to use it.

Disappointment I can deal with, because I speak my mind.

it's the hurt that I don't handle well.

This is a woman who has said to my face how glad she is that Carlos and I found each other; how lucky we are to have one another. This is a woman who has said to me time and again how good I am for Carlos. And, apparently, these were not the truth.

So, I sat, and stared at the email, wondering what to do, what to say. Carlos was asleep, but his aunt had sent her response to him as well, so i wondered if he'd read it and what he thinks. But that discussion is for the morning.

I finally decided I needed to write to this friend, and express myself. I held back the anger, though the hurt and disappointment came through, I think.

"Hello ____,Gloria made a small mistake when responding to your email in that she sent her response to both Carlos and myself, and I was quite shocked/disappointed/hurt that you would say this to her:
"I can't believe it. I don't want to believe it. I still think that Bob is not good enough for Carlos, but after 8 years, I have stopped hoping. You know what they say: We can't change other people; we can only change ourselves."
I'm sorry you feel this way. And sorry you felt the need to share it with Gloria.Bob"

I sent it and thought it would make me feel better, but the whole thing is keeping me awake. I'm not posting this for a Bash The Friend Pity Party; I'm not posting it to get back at her. I think I'm posting it to get it out me, and out in the atmosphere, and away from me.

Here's hoping it works.