Crazy Irony

Crazy Irony

The first time my husband met my family he had only occurred to me that morning as someone who might possibly become more than just a friend. Until that morning he had been a guy I knew from work who, in a moment of personal weakness, I had invited to participate with my family at an Easter celebration my parents had planned for my younger sister, her fiancé, and a group of their friends from A&M.

My moment of weakness was a “Perfect Storm” of circumstances from my life I saw recreated that weekend in the life of my ‘guy friend’. I felt sorry for him having to be away from his family on a holiday weekend. I knew him well enough to know that family was a big part of his life, his family was all back in Louisiana (all but the sister who had married and followed her military husband to Germany), and it was too far to travel for a two day weekend; even if it were a major Christian holiday. Just two years earlier my job had me temporary-duty-stationed in another state, over Easter weekend, away from my ‘then husband’, all of my family, and all of my friends.  I knew NO ONE. As certifiably dysfunctional as my family is, I still missed them terribly. It was the resonation with this painful experience that caused my mouth to open and the invitation to spring forth.

I had immediately begun to kick my self as soon as he accepted the invitation. I had previously invited a guy I was dating to accompany me on a Sunday as I taught my little class of 2 and 3 year-olds and the whole experience was disastrous. It wasn’t his fault. He was fine, but for some reason, it just didn’t work for me. To the point that I even quit dating him. I surmised that I just wasn’t ready to share that part of my life with anyone as I was still healing from the divorce. But, that had been months ago and I wasn’t dating James. He was just a friend from work. In fact he hadn’t even registered on the radar as a prospect. I had pegged him as too young out of an assumption of his age based on when he had joined our work force. When I called my mother to advise her of the additional guest, I had very sternly admonished her to treat him just like a friend of Lisa’s that wasn’t Wayne.

That morning during Sunday School I witnessed a scene where James was sitting in a little kid chair; at the little kid table; cutting, pasting and coloring with the little kids; asking Allison if the bunny needed to have brown eyes or blue. In that moment I realized that I was being a total idiot. What difference did age really make anyway? If this decided to go someplace, it was OK with me.

My mother fell in love with James that day. She caught me off by myself in a back room and started carrying on about his nice new truck and his beautiful watch which she had noticed had diamonds at the twelve points around the face, etc. (A COMPLETE 180 from my ex!) I reminded her that she had to know that I didn’t care about those things; what good were those things if he were an ass? I pointed out that he could possibly have a girlfriend. Then I went on to make a statement that the greatest writers in Hollywood would have never come up with to use as foreshadow. “And, he is spending the day with my family. He could see something that makes him think, ‘thanks, but, no thanks’”. I promised to keep her posted.

In the days and weeks that followed I learned that he was actually three years older than me (perfect!) and I passed the test with his family and friends. We married and bought our first home that August. It was a “starter” house. Our plan was to not have a walking child before moving out to the suburbs. We had two by the time God made arrangements for us to have the place we needed. Right back in the neighborhood where I grew up. Less than a mile, as the crow flies, from my parent’s house. Some things you just can’t plan.

As the years went by events occurred that forced me to confront my brother, my sister, and my dad with the harsh reality that Mother was, and always has been, mentally ill. That it was time to acknowledge it and start dealing with her as such. There was a perceptible measure of acquiescence, but no one was willing take it face on. After one of Mom’s “episodes” when the unspoken message was very clear that she wouldn’t see her grandkids if she didn’t do something, she finally made a big announcement about getting help. She obviously got something from somewhere, because things changed. These changes were in directions and magnitudes that our wildest imaginings would have never let us dare to hope. She still had “episodes”, but the in between times actually became times when we were able to do more than simply try to avoid precipitating another episode.

A year ago last summer my dad was diagnosed stage 4 colon cancer. We were blessed with the best surgeon. He had told all of us, including Mother, what he had found the day of the surgery, but he wanted to wait a few days before Dad was told. That day the doctor arranged his schedule in order for James and I to be with Mom and Dad when he delivered this terrible news. The surgeon explained that “cure” was not in our vocabulary; only terms like “palliative care” would be. While I never want to be in the room when someone receives such news again, I wouldn’t trade for declaring that my dad was that one guy who redefines the odds. Unknown to my father, the rest of us had held our breath for four days waiting for Mom to disintegrate. She did very well until we were leaving the room after giving Dad the news. I suppose, in her mind, since Dad now knew, she didn’t have to be strong anymore. Actually there is no logic that stands the test of reason for most of her actions. However, they are predictable. True to form, she started her “woe is me” routine in her usual attempt to garner sympathy for the supposed abuse she endures at the hand of my father. I lost it. Everything that I had thought therapy, counseling, and medication had helped me resolve, reframe, release, and every other re-word came flying out of every crevice I had stuffed them. All of the feelings of anguish, anger, hatred, despondency, helplessness, abandonment, on and on came rushing in as I, literally, ran screaming from the building. I only remember that James came and found me. Somehow he helped me talk through everything and I was finally able to go back in and continue to be something that resembled a strong person dealing with a terminally ill father, mentally ill mother, and a just-the-day-before deceased mother-in-law. My sister and her husband were there, but they had just learned that Wayne had a tumor in his colon. My brother couldn’t leave his wife who was due to deliver their baby any minute.

The next few weeks were taken up with preparing Daddy for his cancer treatment and trying to convince Mom that she really needed to get in to see her doctor because I could tell she was starting to “spiral”. I became beyond appalled by the lack of responsiveness from her doctor’s office to her calls. I knew from my own personal experiences in the realm of mental illness that this was completely unacceptable. It was through this process that I realized that she had not ever seen a true psychiatrist. She had only received mood-altering drugs from a primary care physician. A true psychiatric practice would have had her come in the moment they received her call. Instead she kept being advised to wait until her next appointment. But, neither she nor my dad would listen to me.

A few weeks later, on the day of Wayne’s surgery, things transpired at the hospital that caused me to more directly confront my dad about Mom’s condition. But, to no avail. That night I had a difficult time getting to sleep due to everything. I had just dozed off only to be awakened by a phone call from my mother screaming that I had better come over if I didn’t want Daddy to kill her. She hung up before I could respond in any way. As if on auto-pilot I began to change clothes to go over. James all but got between me and the door to prevent me from going. He applied the logic and reason that was lost to me in the moment. He pointed out that if Daddy really had lost it, I didn’t need to be over there. And if not, which was more likely the case, Mom was manipulating the situation again, and therefore, I didn’t need to be over there. He then shared with me what had occurred that previous weekend when I asked him to go over in response to a call from Mom because Dad was outside in the 100 degree heat and wouldn’t come inside. Daddy had gone out to his car to leave to get away from Mom and her craziness. She had taken her car and blocked the drive-way, preventing his departure. I explained to James that this was what she did. She puts you in a box so that the only place left for you to go is crazy.

I waited about 30 minutes and called. Daddy answered. I asked him why Mom thought he was trying to kill her. As matter-of-factly as if he were talking about the weather “Well, I emptied a gun into the floor, not a smart thing to do, I know, but…” Mom had picked up on the extension and yelled, “That’s because you told me it was unloaded and locked up, but I found it and it wasn’t…” It was in that moment that all of the memories of all of the craziness of all of the years of Mom actually trying to get Dad to hurt her. Her trying to convince everyone that secretly he plots to hurt her, etc., etc. And all the while I kept wondering how on this earth he had the self control to keep from inflicting less-than-fatal physical harm, never mind restrain from strangling her, I screamed “I think you want him to do something stupid! I think you’re driving him to it! Don’t call me! Call the fucking police!” and hung up.

I was awake another couple of hours coming down off of that adrenaline rush. I finally dozed off again to be awakened by another call. This time Mom told me the police were there; they were arresting Dad; it was my fault; if only I had come when she had called before. Daddy was arrested. He spent the night in jail six weeks after major surgery for Stage 4 colon cancer. He was released the next morning with a restraining order that kept him from being physically, mentally and emotionally abusive to Mom, but she could still drive him to chemo! (Proof that not only are the mentally ill crazy!) This was in addition to not being permitted to within 500 feet of their home. This according the angel-of-mercy in the form of a friend of my mom’s who tried to affect the situation in a positive direction with the care and understanding that can only come from someone who truly understands the ravages of mental illness.

Somewhere, in the middle of all of this, in a true moment of calm and rational discussion of the total bedlam that was unfolding, James expressed that if he had known that my family was this messed up, he would have probably passed. I could understand this. By this time he had endured my diagnosis of, what is now termed PMDD, three months after we were married. This condition had rendered me suicidal on top of just generally hell to live with, followed by years marked by bouts of severe depression. A lesser man would have run, period. And yet, here he was trying to help me cope with the manifestations of growing up with a mentally ill mother and a father in total denial. All the while trying to manage a situation of in-laws that were mentally ill and in denial, and coping with the loss of his own wonderful mother. For the first time, I shared with him the conversation I had with my mother that day, eighteen years previous. Even in that moment, he could appreciate the irony.

My brother, from his blissful distance three states away in Alabama, was the pathway where we learned that the charges against Dad were dismissed; the restraining order was rescinded after only a few days; and Mother was “getting the true help she needed”. We also learned what had really happened that night. It was much as James and I had imagined. Daddy has always carried a gun around our place out in the country. A little .22 caliber to handle the snakes, skunks, and whatever other varmints appear in the rabies capital of Texas. His habit when he comes in the house is to remove it from his pocket, place it on top of any large piece of furniture handy in their room and cover it with a sweater, scarf or whatever else is available. To this day I am uncomfortable going into their room without one of them in there; it just wasn’t done when we were growing up! When he was diagnosed, for reasons only understandable to her, Mom just started going on and on and on about Daddy and his guns. What he might do with them after being diagnosed with a terminal illness was something she ruminated about with whoever would listen. I found this particularly astonishing since the only thing that kept me from committing the unthinkable during my period of suicidal thoughts was lessons I learned from my daddy! That fateful evening, she had found the pistol under the scarf and went off on Dad. This is a man who had endured more than what 99% of mere mortals would without committing a serous crime for which he would have been found not guilty due to mental duress. It had been six weeks since he had received news that would send most any reasonable rational person over the edge. And now this totally and completely crazy person gets in his face about this little gun. His first action was to simply remove the clip to unload it. She only shrieked that it wasn’t good enough because it wouldn’t take anything to re-load it. So he re-inserted the clip, fired it the requisite times into the floor, laid the gun on the dresser, declared it empty, and walked out of the room. Thus the threat to Mother’s safety that warranted a call to her daughter, the one person she should be willing to lay down her own life to protect, and the police two hours later when she realized the daughter wasn’t coming.

My brother came in Labor Day weekend with his new little family, but there was no way I could be in the same room with my parents. We gathered at my sister’s, minus my parents. Allen delivered the message that Mother did, indeed, blame me for Daddy’s arrest. He further explained that Mother was very unhappy about how things were; that her unhappiness was making things harder on Daddy; and for things to get better for Daddy I was going to have to apologize to Mom. I felt as though someone had kicked me in the gut, but then I realized there was nothing new under the sun. This summed up my entire life in this family. Mother was unhappy and was making everyone else (Daddy) unhappy. There was something I was supposed to do or not do, say or not say to make it stop. I looked Allen square in the face and said, “Message received. The return message is, ‘it is not my job to make things better for Daddy’.”

It took three months for my parents to speak to me again. Even that took a letter that listed absolutely every grievance I ever had along with an explanation that they would not receive an apology from me for not coming over that night, ever. And if that meant not seeing or talking to them again, then that was how it would be. A meeting on neutral ground with a facilitator (the same angel-of-mercy) made me realize that my mother would never understand how egregious her actions were to call her own child to come and protect her from a perceived threat, but it did get us talking again. We even returned to our usual patterns of getting together and, over time, it has become less uncomfortable.

It’s been more than a year now. Wayne was actually only stage 1 and Daddy has proven to be the guy who redefines the odds. Christmas is coming and my brother’s family is planning to come in with his baby, who is now officially, a toddler. We are planning to be all together for the first time since before Daddy’s diagnosis. They are of the Lutheran denomination of the Christian faith; so there is actually discussion about having the child baptized while they are here. There are few things that could be more fitting to symbolize the re-unification of a family. If only we could call it re-unification. It is really only a return to an ability to all occupy the same space for a few hours. But, Daddy deserves to have all of his grandchildren around him all at once at least one time before the inevitable. My sister and I have already devised a plan to put Mother on a bus to Alabama.