Warning: the following contains profanity. If you are offended by the use of a certain word, read something else.
So, I'm fucking tired because last weekend I had my three grandsons stay overnight, my Mother's blood pressure went over 200 and she didn't fucking call me or the fucking doctor but sat alone on Sunday. It was hot and humid and fuck you if you think I whine a lot for a fucking grown up. We don't have central fucking air-conditioning and I don't even fucking want it. I would have slept better but the basement where the fucking window fans are kept was fucking flooded. One of the grandkids felt sick at 3 am and I drove him home in my nightgown, a black leather jacket, and boots. That was peaceful. I half hoped to get pulled over on the way back by a cop, what with my fucking Menieres vertigo, I wouldn't have passed the fucking roadside sobriety test, even though I was fucking sober.
Memorial Day weekend, so firecrackers and sirens, probably people driving fucking drunk. I didn't get to go to my Dad's grave. We weren't invited to any fucking barbeques. I can't even remember what we fucking ate, except there was ice cream leftover from the grandkids. I watched Coming Home on Lifetime, military families being re-united, and cried my fucking eyes out. I called my mother and apologised for not taking her to the parade in her town or my Dad's grave. She told me she didn't feel well enough to put up the new flag I had given her several days before, so she sat and made a list of all the veterans, living and dead that she knew and prayed for them.
I tried to be fucking helpful with my husband's sister, who is recently widowed. Despite being schizophrenic, she is THE nicest person on his side of the family. I won't even go into the fucking details of the mess she's in, with her husband dying without a will, and the fucking relatives who want to "help" her. But I can't fight every fucking battle that comes along.
This past weekend, after buying three hundred fucking dollars of food, I had five twenty-year-oldish guys here working on some computer project. That was fun. Although the huge quantities of food I felt obligated to provide are gone and the fucking phone just rang, not with a recording from whoever is reminding me to fucking vote in the local election, but a reverse 911 call from the police department. Someone hit a telephone pole with a car and the stretch of road that leads to the fucking grocery store will be closed all day. This makes me sad for whoever was involved.
Yesterday, so this is fucking not in chronological order, had to take Mom to the cardiologist, who ordinarily I like. Fucking ridiculous appointment. My mother, in my short absence, refilled two meds and then ignored the carefully typed, dated, in-a-binder instructions regarding when to take her meds. My fucking siblings suggested having her use the weekly pill boxes. Her fucking primary doctor suggested the same fucking thing, so before I left her house; I bought the fucking boxes. Together, I read off what pills needed to be in what time of the day box and had her place the pills in the boxes. Then, I labelled the boxes and wrote the names of the meds on the boxes. Sounds fucking OCD, right? I was trying to make it easier for her.
Yesterday, I find out the fucking refills had different directions on them, as in "not what the fucking doctors told us", or hand wrote on RX pads, which I get copies of and put in the fucking binder. So my mother had filled the box with the old directions, leaving out adjusted doses that helped bring her blood pressure down. I called both her fucking primary and the fucking cardiologist and tell them they need to fucking communicate with each other, as to what meds she's on, and make sure the fucking directions on the bottles match what they want her to take. Of course, each blame the pharmacist and/or each other, which doesn't fucking fly with me. Of course, I do not use this word in front of my mother or on the phone, but my mother silently makes a pot of tea. She can tell my mood. After tea, I put on my reading glasses and we re-do her pill boxes together.
As I'm leaving, I hug her and tell her I miss her saying goodnight to me and kissing the top of my head. Because I do. She says she misses it too, so we agree I will sleep over on Saturdays, so that I can help her with her pill boxes.