my oscillation
between guilt, anger, and grief
keeps me quite busy


Orbital bone broken in two places, still trying to see if his jaw is broken.  Surgery scheduled for tomorrow - they are worried about his vision.  And yet he's on social.    And of course his story has him going to a BBQ that "he was invited to" and mysteriously getting jumped by three guys who break three bones in his face during the beating.  He searches for his dog (heroic!) and almost gets shot (drama!) before the guy with the gun sees his wounds and calls 911.

He arrives to the hospital via ambulance.

He isn't talking to the police because his dog is still missing and he's worried that the guys that jumped him might have her and harm her.  I suggest, you know - like a 49 year old mother of three who doesn't operate in the criminal element - that perhaps the police would help find Lola and that he's probably mistaken he can negotiate for her release.  I don't understand.  Of course I don't.  I only raised three kids, held jobs, made a marriage work.  What could I possibly know about life seeing as I'm not mentally ill, drug addicted, living on the street and having my head bashed in at a party?

But I've watched enough crime drama to know this isn't an organized hit and whoever has that dog has either killed it or left with it as a pet.   There is no negotiation for her timely release.  

Let's not even unpack the question of why the hell a homeless, mentally ill person has a pet when he can't take care of himself.  Apparently the short answer is "protection" - but um.. how well did that work?

But here I sit.  Grief that our child had this happen to him, compounded by the years of grief over his diagnosis, behaviour, refusal of treatment, and his drugs and alcohol abuse.  Anger that he doesn't learn, and that it's never his fault, and that we'll be going through this for a few years yet.  Guilt that I can make fun of it, that I'm at the point where it really isn't real anymore.  

Had a conversation last night.  Bob wishes he could just bring him here.  Force him into recovery.  Make it all better.  He wanted to ask Dylan if he's ready to come home.  I reminded him that Dylan is an adult.  He has to choose recovery, he has to get home on his own, and he has to figure out his life.  Mommy and Daddy and grandma and whoever else has to stop trailing him like the guy with the wheelbarrow in the parade, cleaning up his messes and making it easy.  Recovery for this boy will not be easy.  

the telephone rings

and life stops, for a moment

nothing but waiting.

Last night at 4:20, amusingly enough, I found out our youngest was in an Alabama hospital, after being beaten up and having his orbital bone broken.  

Immediately, you wonder what you can do - flights to the states are cancelled, I can't cross the border, I have a friend in Panama City Beach, but that's almost 3 hours away...  and of course, we don't know which hospital or how our son is taking this beating.  

When you're a mentally ill addict, it's more likely you're pissed off and launching into some seriously bad behaviour in the hospital, then using this time to ponder how you got here in the first place.

Your second thought is "live by the sword, die by the sword".  Sadly, when you're a mentally ill hobo with drug and alcohol addiction issues - this is not a surprising outcome to a weekend.  I work in a downtown mission that serves folks like my son and it's not unusual to see cuts, bruises, broken bones, and other issues all in various stages of healing.  Orbital bones get broken when you get stomped or hit with a bat.  That wasn't an every-day jumping to take a phone.  

15 hours later, still no word.  I complained to Bob that Dylan's grandmother, the one updating us, didn't tell me which hospital he was in - and Bob started in on me not "involving him in this drama".  So I went into my gmail, erased the freaking emails, plastered a smile on and said "ok". 

Involving you in this drama?    It's your freaking kid - and once again his other family is working with me because they cannot handle his high and mighty attitude.  He said last night that if Dylan dies, he doesn't know how he will ever forgive Brenda.  I mentioned she's probably feeling the same about him.  

Neither one of them has ever wanted to see Dylan for what or who he is - unsurprising to see that 20 years later, they are still peacocking about who the better parent is while his grandmother and I figure out what he needs.

my arthritic hands
stained, and smelling of the earth
painful reminders


Yesterday, I took a mental health day and did my yard work.  I weeded, put down triple mix, watered, added mulch.  Six garden beds in all - some veggie, some flowers, some plants  - plus lunch, and breaks, and helping Bob.  We dug a new firepit, too, and added some bricks and sand for definition and safety.  Today I'm back to work, but looking out over the back yard, wondering when the new patio furniture I ordered will be here, and seeing that I need to mow and weed-wack the lawn again, already.

It was nice enough this morning to sit outside before 7 a.m. to enjoy my first coffee.  The weather that continually waivered between late winter and early spring for the first 9 weeks of Covid, is now solidly summer. 

Sadly, as I realize it's been 10 weeks since I've been at the office, I know this isn't letting up.  I laughed out loud this morning, reading a press release from the city where they will be doing "virtual camps" this summer for kids.  The tone deafness during this pandemic is hilarious.  Sure, I usually looked for camps the kids would enjoy - but the benefit of camps is the babysitting they afford.  Having one online will be about as useful as teachers being online. Why would a parent pay for a camp that has almost no value to them?  This pandemic has turned my friends into personal assistants for their children - coordinating meetings and assignments, while trying to keep them safe and entertained. 

I cannot wait for Bob's PSW to be done today - I'm looking forward to my shower this morning after all the manual labour I put in yesterday. 

clarity of thought,

moment of lucidity -

aging will not stop.

My right side hurts.  Sunday, we had a bad transfer and I hurt my knee and hip supporting too much of his weight.  Yesterday, he fell and trapped my hand between him and the power chair - crushing it until it bruised.  I feel my age this morning, slightly limping and hand thumping with pain.  And I'm a wee bit overwhelmed - after he fell and I hurt my hand, it took a minute or six to move the chair and lay him down on the floor - and as he already had to use the washroom..

And so, with a bruised hand and slight limp I cleaned him and my floor up, got the lift, lifted him and sat him in a chair, and went on with our evening.  I wondered how I might do it all, for the next twenty or so years, and what happens one day if my arm breaks or my knee sprains and I cannot get up the next morning to do it all again.  

And then I wonder when Covid will end, and when I will get a much needed break where I can sleep and relax with friends without having to help someone else.. just a few days away to rest not only my body, but my spirit.  If I knew on March 1st it would be my last in 3 or so months, I might have taken longer than an overmight.  

The weekend, aside from these incidents, felt a bit normal.  We had some visitors - outside, distancing, etc., with friends and family.  We volunteered, watched movies, bought plants.  I hiked with Jordie and Ben, and walked with a friend I haven't spent time with in two months.  I feel like this may have an end in sight.

fog insulates me
soothes rough edges and protects
blanketing this life


I went for a walk this morning - along the lake trail I like so much.  While beautiful in the sun and warmth, it's utterly romantic in rain and fog.  I walked and walked, my dog wandering through thickets as I stayed on the path - the only sounds the tweeting of birds, the honking of geese, and the call of loons.

I breathed in the damp air as I thought about my steps - and the pain in my right hip.  I've been noticing the signs of arthritis, slowly creep into my joints over the last months - my hip, my fingers, inching me towards old age.  My hip has recently gotten worse - I notice it when I do up my runners or when I lift Bob - it used to just make a sound but now the pain radiates down my leg and up into my side.  I think that's the favourite part of my walks - the silence and the thinking.  Considering myself getting older, Bob's care, the happiness of my dog as he crashes through bushes, and what the pandemic means for a new normal.

I also thought about music as I walked.  I was watching Blacklist the other day, and a song played in the background.  I liked it enough to google the soundtrack and find it - Jose Gonzalez' Heartbeats.  Lovely.  I've been listening to his music the last few days - and in the mix adding Daughter, Monsters and Men, Lumineers, and The National.  Crooners, with an updated feel.  Melancholic.  Like fog, blankets for my feelings.

I miss having coffee with my friends.

coffee, beside me
along with my pens, notebook,
but nothing to say.


Day 58 of my captivity - if we're counting from March 16th.  I ate in a restaurant on the 15th, but I haven't been in the office since the 12th.  I'm no longer clear on how this whole "don't leave your home" thing started. 

It's sunny today, and while not warm - at least I can go outside without my winter coat on.  My bar has been lowered for what a "good day" now looks like. 

what causes me to
doubt your authenticity
is what angers you.


Yesterday, I came into contact with three people who use drugs.  Two heroin users and one meth user.  The heroin users were actually kind of nice - looking for some harm reduction items and wanting to clean up a little.  By cleaning up, I mean a quick wash in the sink - they assured me they wouldn't "use" in the washroom, but we all know they might or would, so I stood sentinel outside the door and routinely checked on their wellbeing.

The meth user, quite frankly, annoyed me.  He was crying and carrying on about all he'd lost.  He seemed to feel that it was our responsibility to find him shelter and a program to get clean.  He just sat there and cried and pitied himself and seemed to not take any responsibility or action.  He seemed hugely unauthentic - a big baby who did whatever he wanted and now expected society to clean up his mess.

I've been trying to figure out why I feel so differently about these two experiences.  I think it comes down to the fact that I can reasonably explain to myself why someone might use heroin.  How it happens, the seduction, especially if it started out as medical opioid use.  I cannot explain meth at all - the rich person's party drug, same as cocaine in the 80s.    It's just so pointless - how do you get to be a person with a house, car, and career - and suddenly start taking meth?  How arrogant are you?  How completely ridiculous?   

And what is WRONG with our society that someone can have everything and still feel bored and restless, and be so completely lazy that they'd rather use an addictive street drug to feel animated then actually change something in their life?

It makes me want to pick up a chair and throw it.  We've come so far, and have so much, and we're chasing feelings like 12 year old girls.

you're not my mother,
which means:  i don't have a wife
that would shop for you.


My husband pulled out the cliche, "you're not my mother" in advance of mother's day.  This, of course, relating back to my request that he NOT commandeer my children and just let them figure out my birthday and mother's day on their own.  They are in their 20s and need to grow up a little, especially my son who likes things very easy.

By no way did I mean not to celebrate me.  Not to get a card or something.   Because while I'm not HIS mother, I did step in with HIS son and made so many sacrifices to do that.  I am battle scarred from the years of parenting his child, deep scars that will likely never heal. 

Just more of the "adventures in caregiving", experiencing MS change my thoughtful, lovely husband's personality into someone who is quick to anger and thoughtless to my feelings.  He also did not buy his mother anything - I did.  I searched.  I bought.  I arranged delivery.  He'll take the grateful phone call and praise, though. 

Do I care?  Not really.  It is a hallmark holiday.  I know the kids love me. I know he appreciates what I gave up to be a mum to his child.  I know, that just below the surface of his frustration, anger, and hurt at what MS is dealing him lies my wonderful husband.

Today will be lovely - volunteering at the Mission, a sunny day, and calls to family.   Maybe I'll hop online and plan a trip for August that will likely be cancelled. 

ultimatims, spoke
the air between us, thinning
nothing left to say


I got to the point, Tuesday evening, where I had had enough. 

Believe me when I tell you, I didn't get to that point quickly or easily - and the thoughts rolling around my head and my heart were contracting both to the point of pain.  I love my husband and knew 20 years ago what I was getting into and what today would mean - even if I thought today would come after many more tomorrows.  And yet, here we are.

I'm my husband's primary care giver.  And the care that I do not give, I coordinate.   I take this on gladly, and don't judge anyone for it.  I'm thankful, almost daily, that I have the resources and background to figure this all out. 

But it's been a tough year.  The calendar year of 2019 saw him become more and more debilitated, his personality change, and then him suffer a frightening breakdown.  2020 has seen him improve, slightly, or at least level out to a place where we can figure out this new normal, but we're grieving a life lost - for both he and I.

If you've been following along, you know I hate pot and that for the last year or so he's tried cannabis to deal with his pain and spasms with varying degrees of success.  You'll know that I was never a fan, continue to not be a fan, and actively blame it for some of the mental issues we're seeing.    That, and his anti-depressants working "too well". 

Tuesday, he smoked, and then got manic.  My heart raced, my headache soared, and I got to the point where I decided that I no longer could do this.  I gave the ultimatim once I realized that I didn't care what the answer was - I just knew I couldn't do this.  Weed or me.

I want to tell you that I'm disappointed in myself for not being able to handle this - but the truth is I don't think I should have to, with everything else I deal with. Perhaps I'm still not over what happened in December.  At any point, we all have our limits.

exhausting, mornings
the winter sky taunting me
with spring promises


I'm sitting at my new desk in my new corner looking out over the back yard, watching my dog poop, and half listening to Bob and his PSW discuss Jedi as a religion. 

Take a moment.  Take that all in.

It's barely 7 a.m.  and I'm trying to decide if I'm going to go back to bed, or up and dressed and out for a walk with Jake.  Or if I'll sit here doing neither for an hour and then regret not making an opportunity. 

I'm feeling a bit bereft today - a little unmoored.  I don't mind the social distancing and the working from home, but I'm ready to travel again.  I'm disappointed that I had to cancel my vacation and as I look at options for the summer in Canada - nothing is exciting me. 

"those are my pants, dude"

awkward silence fills the room

directive statements

I went into my bedroom this morning, to help with a lift.  Bob was laying in the bed, having fallen over during a stand.  I noticed, immediately, that he had on a pair of my running pants and not his.  Pretty obvious - the feminin detailing, the length, and the fit.  I said, "dude, those are my pants".

"they fit"

No, they don't.  They are on, yes.  But they don't fit.  I didn't say this, I thought it during the silence that followed - he, me, and the male PSW who is always in a rush and always leaves early and never does the dishes.    Eventually the PSW just got him up and in his chair and my husband sat there, like an old man with dementia wearing someone else's clothes after a nursing home laundry mix up.

I changed him, later.  Partially because he looked absolutely ridiculous, partially because I kinda liked the pants he was wearing and didn't want them wrecked, and partially because I'm embarrassed by how he looked.  

I've now officially ended my patience with this situation.  My husband is to stop being so fucking good natured and have a difficult conversation with his PSW:  do your job.  Dress him properly - pulling up his pants and underwear, tucking in his shirt, and otherwise making him look like a member of society.  Seat him in the chair properly - not leaning or slouching.  Wash the fucking dishes and stop leaving them.  Do Bob's exercises slowly and properly - not a fucking checkbox to get done.  We get an hour a day - and it's whittled down to 25 minutes of substandard care again.

I'm tired of being the mom and the bad guy.  My husband can speak to these people.  He has one week to fix this or I'll file a complaint.  I'm not impressed at all.