Cairn Rodrigues's Blog: The Light Stealers Song, page 8

Slippery Slope

My dad forgave me for betraying him.

That was a profound blessing and relief, one I think most people in my position don’t get to enjoy.  The idea he would go to his grave being disappointed in me hurt more than all the other hurts combined.

But Andy is a very loving man, something most people never get the opportunity to see because he hides it very skillfully behind a lot of belligerence.  I always saw it and he always knew.  He always knew yelling wouldn’t scare me away and my yelling back was just another way of saying “I love you”.

He called me Saturday night after the dust settled, to thank me (!) for all that was done on his behalf.  Dad wanted to make sure I knew that he knew I did what I did because of love.  He wanted to make sure I knew that I wasn’t his stepdaughter, but his daughter.  His kid.

The feeling of peace his phone call gave me is indescribable.  I am so blessed to have a man with such strength of character for a father.  I hope someday that I can be as forgiving and strong with my own stepkids.

Someday.  These days, I try very hard not to think about my husband’s children because there are already enough painful issues to sort out.  Their absence from my life during this horrible time is a sadness I can’t measure.  It’s been necessary for my preservation to put a substantial amount of emotional distance between them and me.  Keen observers will note the shift between them being referred to as “my kids” to “my husband’s kids”.

The words are important.  

I blatantly asked for a sign of love from them not long ago, received deafening silence in return.  And by sign, nothing drastic was required, a phone call, a visit, a greeting card perhaps.  An ironic Happy Meal would have sufficed.

Part of me is inclined to believe my dad’s long held opinion that G’s kids were never worthy of my love.  In the long run, Andy has been a lot more right than he was wrong.  But love is a tricky business.  They might not love me, but I do love them.

It would be a lie to say I don’t think about the kids every day.  Every time I’m wading through one of Andy’s tirades or making decisions about his care, a little voice wonders if the people I raised will do the same for me.

Probably not.  But that’s on them, not me.  I didn’t fail them, if I was half as good at being a stepmom as I am being a stepdaughter, then they are luckiest fucking people on Planet Earth.

This blog is the most energy I’ve expended on Shortening and Cracker in months.  Gotta say that it’s cleansing to get it off my chest.  But my energies are better spent these days on taking care of Andy and taking care of me.  His mood swings are becoming almost unmanageable, they are swift and capricious.  Keeping him balanced and on topic is impossible, so I try to just skim atop the choppy waters the best I can.

I don’t think he has much time left.  The bitter truth is that I hope he dies before I have to put him in a facility.  That’s a betrayal I DO NOT want to commit.  It’s selfish, yes, but selfless too.  He’s not the same man he was even six months ago, rational and in control of his faculties.

That man would not want to live like this, he would not want to be so out of control.  I don’t want my dad to die ever, but I know in his rare lucid moments, he is embarrassed by what’s transpired.  He deserves to go out with dignity and I pray that fate will allow it.

Part 1:  Crumbling Of A Caregiver

Part 2:  Gun Control

Part 3:  Collateral Damage

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Collateral Damage

Want to hear something funny?  February of 2014 was supposed to be all about me.  Well, me and The Last Prospector. I put a ton of work into creating a virtual blog tour for the book, from scratch mind you.  Finding the time to line up tour dates and create enough content to go around wasn’t easy in the spare moments in between my dad’s needs.

 

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My dad with his “grandchild”

 

But I did manage it and am pretty proud of all the guest posts that got banged out under pressure.  Hospice was supposed to be my ticket to ride.  Not that I was going to ignore my dad for the whole month, but I fully intended to let the professionals do their jobs so I could do mine.

Now, as the dust settles, it’s pretty easy to see that I let down everyone involved.  All those folks who opened their blogs to me, put in a lot of effort to promote my book and went 10 extra miles to accommodate my special needs life, were left with an absentee guest.  My apologies to them all, you all deserved a lot better from me.

It appears that apologizing is my life’s work lately.

Yesterday, I shared the story of the agonizing decision to remove the guns from my father’s house.  If only the agony was done with the removal, if only outsiders would have left bad enough alone.  That did not happen.

For the sake of family harmony, I won’t publicly identify the person who repeatedly threw gasoline on my bonfire.  Suffice it to say that it’s not a blood relation, but still part of the family.  I’ve assigned the person the alias of Loki, the Norse god of trickery and chaos.  

After we removed the guns from my father’s home into my brother’s care, I thought the worst was over.  My brother offered to facilitate the sale of the weapons.  Three of the guns had precarious legal repercussions and only a handful of people in the area could legally purchase them.  What I wanted most was for every gun and every bullet to be sold to a responsible THIRD party and out of my family for good.

But Loki had other plans.  Despite having no experience at all with any gun more lethal than a Nerf or a Super Soaker, he became obsessed with purchasing all of the guns and the ammo.  He made repeated calls to my dad making offers.  My dad has never liked Loki all that much, my dad was insulted by the offer, my dad gets confused easily and was still angry that his guns were stolen from him in the first place.

Loki would not leave my dad alone, nor me, nor my brother.  Despite my brother telling Loki that those guns were not for him, despite my stated preference that the guns go outside the family, despite the family member closest to him demanding Loki to stop.  Yes, despite all of those things, Loki just kept going.

The pressure put on me because of Loki’s actions are hard to measure.  Let’s just say the nuisance ache in my midsection is most likely a former bit of carbon that is now a tiny diamond.  We had to get those weapons sold, we had to do it quickly before Loki’s interference detonated a bomb that would incinerate my family.

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to sell an armory in a heavily regulated state on the fly?  

Let me please take a moment to sarcastically thank Dick (not his real name either) at Sacramento Black Rifle (no backlink for you, Dick) for wasting an entire Friday afternoon for me.  Because, your selfish inactions added tremendous stress to my already grossly over-stressed day.

The hero of this piece is Don from River City Gun Exchange.  He came in on Saturday morning, he has a storefront and a business card, two things that made it easier for my dad to sell the weapons.  Not only did he make a very fair offer for the lot, he went a tiny bit higher to make my father feel like he negotiated especially well.

People like Don are heroes.

Within two hours after the deal was struck, all the proper paperwork was signed, the inventory removed from Dad’s house and it was over.  Blessedly over.  The guns are gone, Loki has been defused and I am profoundly grateful this situation is finally resolved.

You might think all this drama would make me actively anti-gun.  While I’ve never owned a gun and it’s highly doubtful I ever will, I’ve been surrounded by responsible gun owners most of my life.  For every one doofus like Loki, there are ten conscientious people like my dad and brother.  Unfortunately, it’s only the Lokis who make the evening news.

As for Loki, I’m too exhausted to hate him.  He’s not a bad person, he actually has a very big heart and many wonderful qualities.  His impulsive stubbornness is not one of them.  This too will pass.

Part 1:  Crumbling Of A Caregiver

Part 2:  Gun Control

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Gun Control

Saying that it’s been a long week is gross understatement of the facts.  It feels like a decade has passed over the last seven days.  I’m fairly sure I look like a 120 year old woman, with a wizened face and a hunch.

The post I wrote seven days ago found me on the brink of an emotional breakdown.  That I pulled out of it and found the strength to handle what came next is a testament to the human ability of survival at all costs.

To recap recent events, my elderly father is dying of lung cancer.  He’s got metastases on his brain, and recently endured two rounds of radiation therapy.  Currently he’s in hospice and his mental state is precarious.  Because of the incident that inspired the previous blog post, I could no longer indulge any denial about Dad’s decline.  And this is where the story takes an even uglier turn.

My dad has always been a gun owner, he received his first weapon at 15 from his own father.  He’s never been a gun nut, always very responsible with the handling and storage of his arsenal.  Dad collected many guns of all types during his life.  When he retired from being a machinist, he became a dealer, setting up tables at gun shows around the state. It was a retirement venture, he and Mom enjoyed the outings and it kept them active.

Dad has always been a stickler for the laws regarding weapons.  At some point, the laws of California made it extremely difficult for casual dealers like my dad to stay in business, so he stopped dealing and sold off most of his inventory.  Most.

He kept some for home defense, some for the sentimental value and some as investment pieces.  He also had a substantial amount of ammunition and assorted accessories.  I didn’t really understand how large his collection was until yesterday, when I saw it all, every last piece, spread over the living room floor.

He’s been wanting to sell his collection, been saying so since his cancer diagnosis.  But I had so many other things to deal with, and I have no experience with gun sales, that I just kept pushing the idea away.  After last weekend, his fury was biblical, I began to worry about his mental state and the weapons.  I’m not the  only person who walks into his home regularly.  There’s his housekeeper and a roster of folks from the hospice coming through his front door every week.

What I couldn’t get past, couldn’t gloss over anymore, are the inexplicable and unpredictable rages that were coming over him on nearly a daily basis.  Especially because he never remembered them after the fact.  All I could see was an ever-increasing potential for tragedy.  Those guns were on his mind, his mind is confused and a stranger walking through the door at the wrong time could be easily confused as an invader.  Too easily.

As much as I love my dad, as much as I respect him and never, ever want to take anything away from him, I simply could not leave those weapons with him.  My obligations are not only to him, I’m obliged to look after my own safety, the safety of his caregivers, the safety of the families living nearby.  Not surprisingly, the hospice was adamant the weapons be removed as well.

It does not fill me with pride to tell you that we ganged up on him.  My husband, two representatives from the hospice and me.  We tried explaining the reasons he should surrender the weapons, but he doesn’t remember his rages.  I can’t think of any person under any circumstances willing to admit their mental state is compromised, it’s humiliating.  It still tears me up knowing I was a party to his humiliation, tears of shame sting my eyes as I type this.

I wish I could say that my dad saw reason and surrendered his weapons.  But he didn’t.  When it became apparent the argument had reached a stalemate, we had to do something drastic.  To my everlasting shame, I had to deceive my father.  I deliberately preyed on his confusion and asked him to go out to dinner with me.

He always wants to go out for a meal with me, it’s the one thing that always works.

I lured him out of the house, my brother came and took the guns off the property.  My dad trusted me and I betrayed him, sat there at a bad Mexican restaurant and chose my small talk carefully so I wouldn’t be outright lying to him.  I was a cowardly, mealy mouthed conspirator in a crime against a very sweet man who wouldn’t even let me pay for dinner.

Going back into the house was like walking to my own execution, I knew what would come.  I would have to admit what I did, tell him that I tricked him because I loved him.  It was a pain on the same level as making the decision to take our daughter off of life support all those years ago.  It’s the kind of pain that never stops hurting.

The look of betrayal in his eyes is seared into my soul.  No matter how good, right or honorable my intentions, my actions were cruel.  I do not regret choosing to do the right thing, but I will always regret the way I had to do it.

I wish I could say that was the end of the story.  It’s not, it got worse.  But this is all I can process for one day, so I will continue tomorrow.

Until then, please considering telling at least one person how very much you love them, how you will always fight for them and how glad you are that person is in your life.

Part 1:  Crumbling Of A Caregiver

Part 3:  Collateral Damage

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Crumbling of a Caregiver

cancer is contagious.  My father’s cancer is destroying me with same speed and ferocity as it’s destroying him.  My form of cancer won’t show up in an X-ray or MRI, it can’t be cured.  I have symbiotic cancer, it’s an elusive shadow colonizing my cells and relentlessly spreading throughout my existence.

My dad was diagnosed with stage 3 lung cancer in September 2013, by November he was stage 4.  He entered a hospice program in January.  I am, have been, his sole caretaker since it started.  I drove him on the daily 100 mile round trips for radiation treatments, I take him to all his appointments, I do all the paperwork, run all the errands.  I get his groceries, make  his meals and serve as translator because he won’t wear his hearing aids.  When it came time to enter hospice, he didn’t want to leave his home.  I turned myself inside out to make that happen, and it did.

A quick trip through my Facebook statuses will show that I haven’t done this all without complaint.  I complain, I vent, I cry – then I pull myself together and get back to caregiving, because there isn’t any other choice.  I’m the only one he’s got and the sole target of all his angers.

Yes, if a disease attacked me, stole my life, stole my quality of life, I’d be angry too.  It’s only natural.  But he was an angry person before cancer, always reliably grouchy about a galaxy of irritations, always reliably negative.  The difference now is I can no longer reason with him – and I’m one of the very few people who ever could reason with him.

His angers are all that’s left now.  He is only angry, furious in fact.  He sits and stews, remembering every slight, every incident from his life that angered him.  Like a dragon with a hoard of gold, my father is jealously guarding rage and taking every opportunity to hurl his rage at me.

The verbal attacks are getting progressively more vicious.  Since the whole head radiation in November, his memory has a lot of gaps, time is blurred for him.  He makes up “facts” to stoke his rage, using his revised history to demonstrate what a waste of time my whole life has been.

I called to check on him yesterday afternoon, left a message on the machine when he didn’t answer.  I called again 1 1/2 hours later and he still didn’t answer.  Since he refuses to wear the alert button, we rushed over to check on him.  It turns out that he heard the phone, heard my message, but didn’t call me back because he’s pissed off that the garbage disposal stopped working.  

Then he laid into me for barging in, waking him up, not giving him any peace.  Fine, we’ll just go on back home.  So sorry for caring and all.  But he wouldn’t let me go, he insisted on telling me how I come from lazy stock (he’s technically my stepdad), how the Rodrigues’ are lazy, how my siblings and I can’t hold jobs or do anything right.  

And let’s not forget about my stupid book.  What a waste of time that is and who wants to read some fairy tale full of magic and weird names and giant cats.  I am clearly a very spoiled child without clue one how to be a responsible adult and I need to grow up.

Just FYI, Los Hermanos Rodrigues have managed to hold jobs, own businesses and raise children, so we’re not as useless as the media portrays us.

The toll this is taking on my mental and physical well being is stupefying.  I cry all the time, have stress eaten until I can’t fit in my clothes anymore.  There is a ceaseless pain in my face from clenching my jaws.  On the recommendations of many, I’m trying to get some medical help for my problems.  But I don’t have a primary care doctor and am still waiting for a return phone call from the psychiatry office to let me know if I’m covered so we can proceed to make an appointment for two months from now.

There’s a reason I avoid getting health care.  That reason is the insane bureaucracy of getting health care.  I could go to the ER or a walk in clinic, but just the idea of sitting in one of those uncomfortable places waiting to prove that I’m not a crackhead seeking recreational drugs makes my chest tight and blood pressure soar.

I just don’t know what to do anymore.  I am overwhelmed, over-stressed and exhausted.  Since last night, I can’t help but wonder if my dad is too much a danger to himself or others to be left on his own.  The man has guns in his house.  But just thinking about this makes me feel disloyal and petty.  Once again, I have to make a hard decision and I don’t know if I can.

I am lost.  I am tired of being a punching bag.  I want my life back.

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Book Tour Day 11 – Colorful Language

Happy Thursday, Travellers!

What’s your favorite color?  Today on the blog of Alberta Ross, I wrote about colors and their impact on the formation of Solstice.  The spectrum of colors is as much a character in the Song of Solstice as Prospector, so many thanks to Alberta for giving me a reason to write about it.

If you scroll down to yesterday’s post on her blog, there’s a very nice review of The Last Prospector too!

Remember, there’s still time to enter the contest to win one of three copies on Prospector’s Facebook page.  Also, the fabulous book cozy contest on Holly Jahangiri’s blog is still taking submissions.   Please try to visit The Masquerade Crew daily and vote for The Last Prospector on Cover Wars and play the Scavenger Hunt to win one of three books.

Three ways to win!  Not too shabby at all

After all this softening up, surely you must be ready to buy THE LAST PROSPECTOR on Amazon.com.  I hope you do, it’s a story destined to fill you with delight.  That’s right, I said DELIGHT!

Click the pic!!

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Book Tour Day 8 – Bob Sanchez

Bienvenidos Travellers!

Today finds me getting grilled gently by a good friend of the light stealer.  You may remember Bob Sanchez from one of his appearances on this blog.  If this is your first run-in with El Sanchez, you can read this interview I did with him.

So many wonderful things have cropped up on this blog tour.  Ian Hutson’s pictures are delightful and Holly J. made a book cozy (which is still available, so join the contest).  Now Bob has whipped up The Last Prospector lunchbox!  It’s pretty cool, but you have to go to his blog to see it

Click here to read Bob Sanchez’s blog!

Please don’t forget to drop by The Masquerade Crew and vote for THE LAST PROSPECTOR in Cover Wars, you can vote daily (pretty please, with a cherry).  The contest on Prospector’s Facebook page is ongoing, enter to win a copy.

Thanks to everyone for all the love and support.  Even more thanks to the patience of my friends for putting up with the endless self promotion.

And, in case it has been mentioned lately, PLEASE BUY THE LAST PROSPECTOR ON AMAZON.COM!

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Blog Tour Day 7 – Fantasy Felines

Meow, Travellers

As this mighty book blog tour blunders, ummm, thunders down the tracks, please take a moment to drop by Marian Allen’s blog.  Today I wrote a bit about cats, why I love them and why Prospector loves them too.  Recently, I adopted a rescue kitten, she’s a delightful aerialist who won’t keep her face out of my glasses of water.  Tyra the cockatiel loves her too!

Viva La Gata

In other news, please take advantage of the opportunities to win a copy of The Last Prospector.  One way is to visit Prospector’s Facebook page where I’m giving away three copies this month.  Also, you can swing by The Masquerade Crew blog to take part in Cover Wars and the Scavenger Hunt where several titles are up for grabs.  PLEASE VOTE FOR THE LAST PROSPECTOR ON COVER WARS!

Click the pic!!

Don’t forget that the contest to win a one of a kind crocheted book cozy is on and taking submissions at Holly Jahangiri’s blog until the end of the month.

All that swag AND cats?  Oh yes, this light stealer knows how to party!

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Blog Tour Day 6 – Fantasy Food

Are your bellies rumbling, Travellers?

Please join us today on Holly Jahangiri’s blog, A Fresh Perspective.  Fantasy Food is on the menu and Holly crocheted this amazing book cozy for one lucky winner, so make sure to comment!

Win me!

 

THE LAST PROSPECTOR on Amazon.com for those who are hungry for something new!

Click the pic!!

 

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Blog Tour Day 5 – Meet The Twins

Hello Travellers!

Please swing by Tawney Bland’s blog, Twinning For Twins.  She’s a twin who writes about twins and loves that I created twin goddesses!

BUY THE LAST PROSPECTOR AT AMAZON.COM.  Please, please, please with a red book-shaped cherry on top

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Book Tour Day 4 – Review

Howdy Travellers

Today I am looking forward to reading a review of The Last Prospector by A.K. Anderson on her self-titled blog.  Please drop by and have a look, then possibly swing by Amazon and get your own copy!

THE LAST PROSPECTOR ON AMAZON

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