Therapy

My apologies to my select few readers; this post is going to be a little dark. I have to write because when you live in an apartment, you can't scream for no reason, and when you're married, you can't go for a drive on a whim in the middle of the night.

Background: When I graduated college and began looking for solutions to my depression, I made the decision that I was going to live an honest life. I was raised by secret keepers. Whether it was a poor grade, a broken plate, or a schoolyard fight, secrets were kept, mainly from my father, whose tendency was to explode verbally with anger and beratement. I wasn't going to have that in my life outside of them, and I made it clear by action. When Les moved in with me, I called my family to tell them that night, even though I lived 5 hours away and could easily have kept it to myself and eased them into it. Dad didn't speak to me for the better part of a year, but at least I wasn't living a lie.

Present: I've mentioned that my Uncle Neil just passed away, Dad's 2nd brother. Nanie, Dad's mom, is 94 years old; she lives in a nursing home (one of the few good ones left, run by the Sisters of St. Thomas in Norwalk, CT). She's winding down, bless her heart; running at about 40% , I 'd say, as far as cognitive function and long-term memory goes. I'd initially heard that they weren't going to tell Nanie that Uncle Neil had passed, and I thought, well, good. This is one instance where I'd definitely agree with keeping the truth from someone. I can't imagine a grief worse than losing a child, and when you're infirm and have enough trouble remembering that you have 4 kids, what good can come from that honesty? She's obviously a strong lady, comes from good Irish stock; her own mother lived to be 96. But that's a grief, in my opinion, that she could be spared. Worst case scenario, she recognizes what's going on and must bear that grief, of losing a son. Best case scenario sucks too; I mean, what if it's an open casket at the wake--which is still a big fave among the Catholics--and she's confused into thinking she's at Popie's funeral. She gets to relive that grief all over again, for a husband who's been gone for 26 years now. I just have trouble seeing the point.

Catalyst: Mom calls to tell me...no wait, she thought I'd be happy to know that Dad visited Nanie today, and the brothers had made the decision to tell Nanie about Neil. They're getting her an early viewing at the wake, so she won't be confused by all the people. Well, that's fine, that's caring certainly; I know Dan, Dad, and Tom mean well and will circle the wagons around her like pros. But the way Mom said it, you could tell she thought that my original opinion would've been honesty, so I should be relieved by this turn of events. Good thing we were talking between commercials, because the rage hit my throat almost before I hung up the phone. I had a good cry, and wished I could be up in Norwalk, at Notre Dame, in Nanie's room, in bed with her, cradling her in my arms and telling her stories to remind her about how she would braid my hair when I was little and how she doted on me, because while she loved her boys, she'd always wanted a girl too, to name Mary Jane and braid her long hair.

So I'll ache a little longer, it appears. And maybe I won't get up there before she takes her final rest, but I think I have to try. Apparently she didn't take a fall recently, rather she took her sweet time waking up recently, which may have been a mini-stroke. Well, good, I said, she and Dad can compare notes on TIAs.

Finished my 2nd baby hat tonight, started another mitten. I believe it's time to polish off the Haagen-Daz now.