Food for thought…

From 22 going on 33, via Kat at Looking for the Missing Me…..this is Brilliant!

Overwhelmed With Weird

I think I need my head examined.

Since today kept getting more and more bizarre, I just had to chill out with a movie.  A movie that my psychologist suggested that I watch with my son, way back when he was (WAS!!!) dating a woman with Borderline Personality Disorder, who called him every thirty seconds and texted him in between calls, and became irate when he didn’t return her texts while he was in meetings.  My bone-chilling fear was that she would manage to get pregnant…….but thank G-d she did not, and at last he developed, through hard work, the strength to finally leave her.

The movie, of course, is Fatal Attraction.

My skin is still crawling.

I must be having a masochistic spell, or I certainly wouldn’t have pulled that one out of the hat.  Or maybe I just needed to see something weirder than my real life, these days.

Dad is doing much better now that he’s home from the nursing home.  Mom is busy working on that, though, by encouraging him to stand up by himself in the bathroom (that’s when he falls down–when he’s standing up, because he can’t feel his legs, and the tile floor is always hard).  ‘Round and ’round and ’round she goes, and where she stops, nobody knows.

I’m glad Dad is better.  We get to spend more quality time together.  After I gave him his lunch today, we had tea.  He wanted a really strong tea, so he chose Irish Breakfast, and I had Earl Grey.  As we shared our tea, conversation floated naturally from one topic to another.  Then, on his way to the cookie jar, he fell asleep in his wheelchair, and I let him nap in peace.

My mother came in from shopping with her usual flourish, braying for the cat and waking Dad, which is hard to do.  I waited until everything was settled down, and gathered my things to go.

As I was getting ready to leave, and before I had a chance to put my raincoat on, she slapped me on the arm…hard.

 Memories of stinging childhood slaps.

“Don’t hit me!” I yelled.

“Why not?  I can hit you if I want to.  You’re my child!” Smirked Mrs. Social Worker Guardian-Ad-Litem.

“Parents who hit their children get reported to Social Services.  Remember?”  My mouth said it, but my mind was numb.

“Oh.  Yes,” she said blankly.

So I go home and watch Fatal Attraction.

What a jerk.

I. Am. On. The. Wrong.  Planet.  Phone home.

Which Disaster Will You Be Having Today, Ma’am?

It’s hard to know where to start.

When I last posted, I believe my dad was already in the nursing home, ostensibly for rehabilitation after a fall.  Medicare pays for 100 days of rehab, and then if long-term care is needed, one’s own funds have to be used until gone, and then Medicaid kicks in.  But then you are pretty broke, both the patient and the spouse, because the nursing home costs $6000 per month more or less, and that doesn’t include a lot of necessary things.  So for most normal people, it doesn’t take long to run through the savings/retirement account at that rate.

But it does include the basic care an invalided person needs, like feeding and diapering, showering, and a variety of entertainments for those who are able to take them in.

Well.  Dad’s 100 days were up, and Mom, who used to work at the very nursing home he was in, went to look at the room on the long-term care wing where he was to go.  I didn’t see the room, but apparently it was dark, tiny, and horrible, and Mom freaked out, and she was talking about it in front of Dad so HE freaked out even though he didn’t really understand what it was all about, and he started crying and in his broken language, begging to “go home to his house.”  So I freaked out too.

So Mom decided to bring him home, and I went along with that because Dad’s pleas were heartbreaking.

But.  I had tickets to Israel for the two weeks surrounding the festival of Purim, and Mom wanted to bring Dad home before I came back.  I didn’t like that idea, but when Mom gets a bee in her bonnet about something, it will happen regardless of any extenuating circumstances.

But.  I refused to cancel my trip on account of her poor judgement, so I put Noga in the boarding kennel and went off to Raleigh to spend a few days with my son before hopping a Delta flight (free with miles) to New York, and from there to Israel on Turkish Airways.

Time with my nearly-29-year-old baby boy was wonderful as always.  We never run out of things to talk about.

I arranged with my hotel to keep my car in their garage at $5 per day, cheaper even than the airport’s long-term-parking where you have to drag your luggage to a shuttle stop, then hope the shuttle appears before your flight leaves.  Then, when I returned, I would stay the night at the hotel and drive back to West Bumfuck (as my gay boyfriend in Jerusalem calls it).

My flight was at 7 am.  The night before, I called the front desk and asked them to arrange a cab for me at 5:30–the airport is a 20 minute drive, and since it was a domestic flight I only had to be there an hour before.

The desk person told me they don’t do that (calling cabs), but that there are tons of cabs hanging around at that hour because of all the guests leaving for flights.  But did I want a wake-up call?  I did.  At four am, please.  It takes me a long time to get ready in the morning.

Four am, both my phone alarm and the room telephone go off, and I levitate, thrashing for the light, the phone, whatever I could get my hands on first, sending everything on the bedside table flying: water bottle, glasses, asthma inhaler, cell phone, telephone, lamp.  Fuck.

I felt around and got hold of the lamp.  It still worked.  Then I collected the rest of my belongings, calmed down, and went for the shower.

I got down to the lobby with my bags at about twenty after five.  There was a cab waiting outside.  I rushed to the desk and asked them to reserve that one for me; but at that very moment a couple jumped in and off it went.  So I asked the clerk to please call another one, which she did.  I finished checking out and sat down to wait for the taxi.

An elderly yet fit couple came down, checked out, and sat down to wait for a cab.  Their flight was three-quarters of an hour after mine.

The cab showed up forty-five minutes late.  We all rushed out.  They had a lot of luggage; it took several tries to get it all arranged so that the back hatch would close.  By now it was well after six.  There was hardly any traffic; I entreated my driver to go faster, but he just bumped along.  It wasn’t his flight, after all.

In short, I arrived at the check-in exactly five minutes late.  Would they hold the flight?  No.

But I could go on the next flight, which got into JFK at 1:30 pm.  Great: that was exactly the time my Turkish Airways flight took off.  I called Turkish Airways.  It took a while to get someone who spoke English on the line.  Wouldn’t you think they would have English speaking customer service people in their New York office?

Anyway.

There is only one Turkish Airways flight to Istanbul (the only place T.A. flies from JFK) per day.  I could take the same flight out the following day: for an additional $444.

I considered it briefly.

Then it became clear that this pattern of obstacles was trying to tell me something.  But which thing was it?  Was it a test, to see how many obstacles I could overcome in order to merit to be in the Holy Land for Purim?  Or was it a sign that I’d better turn back, let go, let all my plans (and considerable money) slide?

I chose the latter.

So I took another cab back to my hotel (another $45 fare!), collected my car, drove the five hours back to get Miss Noga, who was of course thrilled to see me (and I her), and drove back up the mountain to beautiful West Bumfuck.  I fell into bed at 7 pm and slept until 10 the next morning.

I figured I’d better go up to the house (remember, I live in an outbuilding on the property) and see what was going on.

Mom was sitting at the table having her breakfast.  Dad was sitting at the table in his wheelchair, staring at the slices of cheese on toast, pawing at them with his nearly useless hands while Mom ate her food and mildly scolded him for playing with his food.

She had only just brought him home, it turned out.  She brought him home in her car, having forgotten that there is a county van service that would transport him safely in his wheelchair, for free.  The very same one we used last week to take him to the dentist.

I fed him his cheese, but the toast was too much for him: it stuck in his throat.  He can’t eat solid foods anymore.  It has to be mashed up or put through the blender.  And his hands have forgotten how to get his fork/spoon/hands to his mouth.  If no one feeds him, he doesn’t eat.

Then the home hospice nurse came and did an intake.  They have someone coming to the house a few times a week, and they provide a wide range of services that I am grateful for.

Mom has arranged for three hours a day of private nursing assistance.  The guy came today and got Dad out of bed, which was a good thing because Mom was unable to get him out of bed by herself.  TYS, TYS, not funny.

The bed of course was soaked in urine, since my dad is incontinent.  So he wanted to get up, naturally, but couldn’t because he is mostly immobile, and Mom is 87 although she has not so far awakened to that fact.  So they had to wait for the nursing assistant to arrive, to get Dad out of bed and showered and dressed.

I showed up there at noon, having slept till 11 am (am I stressed or something?!).  Mom had made Dad a sardine sandwich–his favorite!–that he had not had in 103 days, the time he was in the hospital and nursing home.  So Mom was very excited about the sardine sandwich.  Dad was asleep in his wheelchair, drooling on his front.

She sets this delicious sandwich down in front of him, with all sorts of expressions of anticipated delight.  He stares at it blankly.  I ask him if he wants a bite.  He nods, so I pick up the sandwich and bring it to his mouth, which remains closed.

“Do you want a bite of sardine sandwich, Dad?”

Nods.

“Then you have to open your mouth.”

He does, I slip the sandwich in, and he takes a bite.  I watch out for my fingers.  He is known to have a ferocious bite.

We manage another bite, and then his throat rebels.  I wait anxiously for him to get it swallowed.  I guess that’s the end of the sardine sandwich experiment.

But Dad reaches over, in a rare moment of coordination, and takes the top piece of bread off the sandwich: he uses his spoon to carefully butter the bread with apple sauce, then drops it on the plate.

Mom mashes up the remaining sardines and takes the bread away.  I feed Dad the sardines.  When they’re gone, he spies a bit of onion on the plate and points to it.  I feed it to him.  There are little specks of sardine here and there on his plate; he points to them, and I gather them up on the tip of the fork and put them into his mouth.

Then he has an attack of acute chest pain.  This has been happening more and more often.  In my opinion he’s having cardiac angina–when the heart muscle doesn’t get enough oxygen, it complains loudly with pain.  My mother has convinced herself it’s indigestion.  Well, whatever.  I try to convince her to give him a nitroglycerine tablet when he complains of chest pain, but she looks off into the distance, which I know means “I won’t.”  She says she will give him an antacid.

And now she’s decided that he doesn’t need his pain medication for his destroyed spine and shoulder, because “he just sleeps all day.”  I remind her that maybe sleeping all day might be better than being in agony all day.  Quality of life and all that.  Besides, he sleeps all days anyway.

She briefly brightens up at “quality of life,” being a social worker and all, but then starts complaining again that the medicine “dopes him up.”  So I don’t doubt she will withhold his pain meds.  If she does, I will speak with the hospice nurse and see what good it’ll do.

So here I am, back in my own little hornet’s nest in West Bumfuck, waiting to see what will be.  I know what will be; it’s a matter of when.

 

Bunny Boiling Close Call

If you aren’t yet familiar with it, “Bunny Boiling” is a term referencing a scene in the movie Fatal Attraction.  The movie stars Glenn Close as a person who is supposed to have Borderline Personality Disorder.  (I don’t agree with that assessment, but that’s the consensus.)

There’s a scene in the movie where Close’s character, Alex, in retaliation for a perceived slight from the object of her affection (Michael Douglas), takes his family’s pet rabbit and boils it on the stove.  No, I haven’t watched this scene.  I would freak out or throw up or something, so I leave it to others to write about it.  I learned about the term on the excellent site Out of the Fog, which provides support and resources for people in relationships, whether chosen or unchosen, with people with Personality Disorders.

What it boils down to (sorry, bad pun) is that the disordered person, for whatever reason/non-reason, takes something that is precious to the person they want to hurt, and breaks/destroys/kills it.  It’s not a pretty thing.

And that’s one of the reasons I don’t think “Bunny Boiling” is a feature of Borderline Personality Disorder.  In my experience, Borderlines rarely if ever take out their anguish on other people in planned, complex ways.  Borderlines turn their pain in on themselves, via self-harm that may either be physical such as cutting/overdosing, or in exposing themselves to danger, usually subconsciously.  Some Borderlines have rage attacks and level their explosive anger at people they love, and some hit or throw things.

But they are usually contrite and filled with self-loathing after these spontaneous outbursts, and that’s when self-harm becomes a risk.

Please note: The characterizations of Personality Disorders you will see here are a combination of my own clinical experiences, cross-checked with the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual V.

Contrast that with Narcissistic Personality Disorder, where the person does not feel disordered at all.  Rather, s/he expects the world to put her on a pedestal and worship her.  If she thinks she is not getting enough adulation, she will attempt to emotionally cow everyone in her inner circle, using an arsenal of weapons such as intimidation, gaslighting, temper tantrums, physical and/or emotional abuse, and disregard of boundaries.  She is not above stealing from her own family, and she is not above….Bunny Boiling.  Outside the family, she is all smiles and sunshine, usually a pillar of the community, craving (and getting) admiration and accolades at work and in the community.  The family is powerless to gain support from the community, because if they try to get help no one believes them, because the disordered person is SUCH an angel, anyone who speaks against her must be the devil incarnate.

I’ve noticed some overlap here with Antisocial Personality Disorder.  Both Narcissists and Antisocials tend to have no remorse for the sometimes heinous deeds they do.  They will willingly steal, and feel that it’s merely what they deserve to have, after all.  They both use others for their own designs. They lack empathy.  Neither type has any problem with destroying things belonging to other people, although they do it for different reasons.

Narcissists will destroy things belonging to loved ones because they feel they are not getting the attention or adulation they deserve; therefore they will steal/break/destroy/kill something of special value to the loved one or family.

Antisocials don’t need a motive.  They do destructive acts because they enjoy it.  I have had some horrific experiences with Antisocials, and have observed them torturing animals and getting sexual pleasure from it.  I’ve had Antisocial children in my pediatrics practice as young as five or six, who purposely set the house on fire or set the family cat on fire, etc.  Therapy did not help.  It’s tragic and terrifying to see this developing over time in a youngster.  I know that some of you who are reading this will be angered by my characterization of Antisocial Personality Disorder, and accuse me of demonizing it, but what I am describing is from my direct experience, so I can’t soft-pedal it.

I have written a lot about my mother and my anguish at trying to escape her abuse, only to get sucked back in.  I’ve been doing a lot of work on myself around this, and I am starting to see the way the roles have played out over my lifetime.  My mother is the Disordered One who has absolutely no remorse about tormenting me, kicking the dog, breaking precious fragile one-of-a-kind handmade objects, and saying shockingly denigrating things about my father in front of selected other people.

I am the scapegoat, the one she takes her anger and frustration out on, and then is furious that I don’t adore her the way she envisioned being adored by her child.  For my part, I desperately seek ways to appease her and make her love me, or at least accept me, or at least stop treating me like a contemptuous piece of shit.

My father is the “Winged Monkey,” a term taken from the Wizard of Oz.  The Wicked Witch of the (East or West, can’t remember) had a band of Winged Monkeys that she sent to retrieve Dorothy and crew when they escaped.  In a Personality Disordered family/relationship, a Winged Monkey is the person who, after the scapegoat has fled, goes to her and explains that Mom really didn’t mean to say what she said, she was tired, she was aggravated about something at work, she had her period.

And the scapegoat, not wanting to believe that Mom is such a mean person, capitulates and returns to the abusive situation, hoping that this time will be different, and resorting time and again to appeasement behaviors to try to make Mom proud, so that THIS time she’ll be as nice to me as she is to everyone else.  And since this is just another cycle-of-abuse situation, there is often a “honeymoon” period where everything is lovely, because Mom really didn’t want me to leave–she just wanted to throw me out.

I’ve tried all kinds of strategies to get away from my mother.  I’ve been in therapy since 1984.  I’ve utilized the Geographic Solution, even moving to the other side of the world to get as far away from her as I could.  Hell, if they offered a one-way trip to Mars I’d jump at the chance.

There I was, on the other side of the planet, enjoying myself immensely, assuaging my guilt for enjoying life by calling Mom on Sundays and Thursdays.  Then the Winged Monkey struck again.

He didn’t mean to do it.  He just got awful sick, and they are awful old, and I couldn’t just let them flounder.  Could I?  So I packed up my stuff and came back to the States after four glorious years abroad, and moved into the barn.  No bathroom, no kitchen, but it’s a roof and it has heat, and I’m damned well not going to live in the house with THEM.

Except now, as of about a month ago, it’s not THEM who live in the “real house,” because my Winged Monkey has moved into the nursing home, and it looks to be for the rest of his life.  It is a tragedy.

Last Tuesday I was visiting him, as I do every day, and I brought along Noga, as I do every day.  She has become the unofficial Therapy Dog at the nursing home.  When we finally get to my dad’s room, after greeting all the residents and staff along the way, she cuddles up to him in his bed,

Noga, the Angel Puppy

Noga, the Angel Puppy

and he buries his hand in her silky fur.  Sometimes he cries.  If nobody stops her, she will lick his ears till he convulses with laughter.  She is his angel.

Last Tuesday Mom was looking distracted and a bit agitated.  She asked me if she could take Noga for a walk in the park that adjoins the nursing home.  I didn’t see any harm in that, and I thought it might be therapeutic for Mom, as it was a beautiful day for a walk.  I handed over Noga’s leash, and turned my attention to Dad, who was having a rough day as well.

Half an hour later, Mom came striding into the room with Noga gunny-sacked under her arm.  Her hair (Noga’s) was a mess and her harness hung around her neck.  I took her–she was shaking and grabbed onto me with her claws, terrified–and I noticed that the part of the harness that was hanging from her neck was a part that normally goes over her leg.  The harness had been completely off, and hastily thrown on–not put back on properly.

“What happened?” I asked Mom, keeping my voice even.

“I don’t know, she got out of her harness,” says Mom, avoiding eye contact.

“Did she get scared and pull back?  Did she see a rabbit or something?”  I was hopeful there would be some rational explanation.

“No, she just got out of her harness,” Mom repeated.

I got a chill in the pit of my stomach.

First it was a group of four little shot glasses my dad had made, that he and I used to use every afternoon.  They disappeared, and I found them behind the refrigerator after much grilling.  Two of them are still whole, but the fridge is huge.  I’ll have to wait for someone to help me, but for now they’re safe.

Next it was a really beautiful porcelain vase that my dad and I collaborated on–he threw the vase, and I painted it.  It disappeared from its place on the shelf, and all the other pieces of pottery have been rearranged to fill the gap.  She “doesn’t know” what happened to that either, and she’s not budging on this one.  I think she sold it.

And now, I can only be grateful that whatever occurred to induce her to bring Noga back to me intact–whether it was a moment of remorse, or fear, or whether Noga simply would not leave her–she brought my Angel Puppy back to me.

Although I don’t fool myself that there will be no more “Bunny Boilings,” I will do my best to keep Noga safe, and not to let my own pattern of appeasement deliver her over to….her.