Oh Father

I am near tears and very angry. I need a warrior princess run. I wish it was snowing so I could really feel tough and get it all out. I wish it was dark to hide my tears and make me feel like I am out on the street all alone. I wish it was colder so it would feel like January and I wouldn't be in the wrong weather clothes every day. I wish I didn't feel so twisted. I wish I wasn't in a funk. I wish I wasn't so pissed off. I wish I didn't feel so sad. I wish I was in yoga right now, letting the heat work its magic. I wish I had mint oreos in the house or had access to a bombass chimichanga or meat samosa right now. I wish I was in boxing class right now. I don't think hot Juan (the instructor) would have to tell me, "My grandmother could punch harder than you; c'mon girl, pretend I'm your boyfriend...etc" I am mad. I am steaming. I need something to put me out, calm me down.

On the surface everything is working out according to plan. My job ended today. Well, fingers crossed that it's final. In this industry, nothing ever is. Me trying to stay true to my resolution regarding my finances let my instincts rule, saw us running out of work and put the word out that I would be available for work come next Tuesday. I got scooped almost immediately. A good gig too. I got the call that they wanted me when I was in the elevator leaving the building. That was very cool. I planned that I would actually get to enjoy my three day weekend because I knew I'd be working on Tuesday and thereafter. It actually worked out that way. My intstincts were perfectly on point.

It's my dad. My brother called me earlier and told me that his friend's dad is in town and his friend took his dad to Katz's deli. Guess who they ran into there? I didn't need to think twice for my answer. "Daddy," I said, knowing it wasn't a celebrity and it wasn't someone else that we know. I knew it. Is he self sabotaging? He isn't supposed to be eating that shit. He's rebelling. He's anxious. He's scared. He wants to feel some semblance of control so he is putting himself at peril so if the procedure goes bad he knows who to blame, himself. It's hard when you don't have an answer or anyone to blame and you curse the world and scream and cry to the ether, to the heavens, to God, if you believe; WHY IS THIS HAPPENING, as if the answer would change anything. Asking that question is a decoy. Deal with the fact that it is happening. Clean that mess as best you can. Don't ask questions about why because there is no fucking answer to that one. But I get it. I spent a lot of time there. Of course I didn't hang out in Katz's deli eating my feelings but my health was so bad that I was unable to proactively self-sabotage. Trust me, if I had been physically able to, I would have. I would have drank my feelings, eaten my feelings, smoked my feelings, fucked my feelings, shopped my feelings, all of the above and probably some more that I forget. I wish I could tell him what I learned; that bad things happen to good people. And that you do have some control. You can do what the doctor tells you to do and not do what the doctor says not to do. He's obviously not scared enough. He's letting the loss of control rule. If he let fear rule, he would be listening to the doctor. But letting fear rule and listening to the doctor would mean that he felt like he did have some control and that his efforts would have an impact.

He has given up. To compare to my situation, I was in such extreme pain and discomfort that I had to let the doctor's orders wash all over me. I had nothing else to go on. I had no instinct. I had no better idea. I felt like the doctor was wrong and I was misdiagnosed because it kept coming back with a vengeance and we kept changing treatment to keep up with it and chase it out of me because for a long time, it remained. But I still had no other options. And the treatment was as bad as the disease but I knew that without the treatment I would die. With it I was alive but unhappy, scared, anxious, angry, moody, tired, wide awake, wired, manic and completely freaked out. Is my father going to have to hit some kind of rock bottom before he starts putting the control he does have into good use?

Similarly, my dad is not a drinker. He chides my siblings and I for our drinking and he consistently asks my doctor whether or not I should be drinking, as if I have some drinking problem, making the doctor say, "well, I think Briana is on enough drugs right now that drinking's not such a good idea," to which my father responds by giving me a victorious, knowing look translating to, "if this is what had to happen for her to stop drinking then it's worth it." But I digress. My dad's been drinking a lot lately. It's weird. You turn 60 and that's when you start drinking? It usually doesn't work like that. But there is definite correlation between that and his emotion about his health. There has to be. I knew it couldn't be good for him but I did my homework anyway on his condition and the medications he is on. The research is very clear. Drinking is bad for someone in his position. It exacerbates the underlying condition and it is strongly discouraged when on the meds. I am sure he knows that. Again, with me it was strongly discouraged as well but I had the added incentive that whenever I craved it, which was all the time (you frequently 'need' a drink when you're as stressed as I was) it tasted weird. Weird bad. I couldn't get a beer down. Similarly I bought a coffee every morning and then would take a sip and blech throw it out. Your desires remain the same but your body doesn't welcome them the way they used to. Very strange. But clearly, my dad's body is welcoming the alcohol and the caffeine and the bad food with open arms. He's using food and alcohol as coping mechanisms. He doesn't realize this but he's just feeding the beast. And the beast never gets full. The beast always wants more. You need to change the way you cope into something positive. If you change the mind, chances are the body will follow. I am sure he will eventually get there, to the elusive place of acceptance that my siblings advocated for me and I resisted for so long; I just hope more damage isn't done before he gets there.

So yeah, I am mad at my dad. Who cares how smoothly and deftly I arranged my work schedule, seamlessly jumping from one project to the next with a nice three-day weekend wedged in between when my dad is stuffing his face with his comfort food, the food of his youth, hot pastrami and well done fries, a hot dog smothered with potato salad to start, a celray soda and god only knows what else. I am pissed at him because he's not taking care of himself. He's not doing what he can. He's not doing his best. Doesn't he know how much he means to me? Doesn't he see what this is doing to us? He's being so selfish allowing himself to wallow in his situation without thinking about how scary this is to watch. He may as well be balancing out the window on the 36th floor on a ledge on a stormy, windy day. Come on, Dad, shit ain't cool.

Meanwhile, I was right the other day about the reactions of my siblings. My blog started an onslaught of emails from them about how they envisioned each of us dying. First my brother wrote, "It is just something that I am 100% certain is going to happen some day, even if I dread that day whenever it comes. I am very confident that he will be well for a long time." My sister replied, "I'm with ya. I'm not worried ... eventually he will die from something heart-related and Briana colon related. Mommy prob something like her mother. N [my brother], I don't know about you...or me." My bro wrote back, "I think I am gunna die like Grandma T....not literally an aneurysm, like her, but something where I am gone in an instant without warning.." My sister then picked her fate, " Probably I will either have a heart attack or a stroke or a combo of them." I responded, "I don't see him as well now. i think he's sicker and more unwell than he lets on. i do see him living longer than momma, look how long his parents lived; but with no quality of life just like them, constantly plagued by ailments brought on by the excesses of his life. His eating habits lately aren't serving him well at all. His eating habits lately also demonstrate how stressed he is about this. So I don't feel as confident as you two do about him." My sister fired back, " Oh he's stressed and his eating isn't good but he isn't dying per se. If he talked about his feelings instead of keeping them in, he would mentally and physically feel better." My brother's two cents, "[H]e has been stressed and eaten poorly his entire life...I just dont think it is his time to go yet and this is just a first of many warnings that he and we are going to get.." I was appalled that they were chosing to ignore reality, "i think we have less control over our fate than we think we do. on the other hand his lifestyle is a self-fullfilling prophecy. i don't know why he's tempting fate the way he is. i did all this research today on atrial fib and his meds and he is not allowed to drink alcohol or have caffeine, should be exercising and yoga and meditation were also suggested. now he decides to suddenly become an alcoholic. you know?" My brother snidely replied, "I also hear that staying up until 10:00am and drinking heavily is not the best thing for ulcerative colitis....It's his life, and he is doing the best he can to find the medium ground between happy and healthy....just like we all are..." Case closed until today when my brother's protective veil of nonchalance was finally penetrated.