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Posts Tagged ‘husband’

Husband may have to go.

There is nothing on earth, that I hate as much as crawly things without legs.  (Opps!  That did not come out right.  I don’t mean to say he is a crawly thing without legs.  He just likes to ignore things that need to be done.)  Now, my hatred does not include larger things, like snakes, which are also crawly and without legs.  Although, after I found a snake in the basement, it did take me about six months to stop searching the basement floor for snakes everytime I went down there.  I am quite sure they know it is me descending the stairs and they then hide behind the washing machine, or on a more evil note, the toilet so as to scare the holy s__t out of me.

But, show me a maggot and I will become a quivering mass of jelly.  A quivering mass who will sit on the couch for days making sure I do not have one of those things on my skin or in my hair.

So, the other day we had tiny little fruit flies; LOTS of tiny fruit flies.  Husband took out the inside garbage and hosed the can down inside and the lid and also did it to the outside cans.  He did not tell me he had found maggots in the lid.  The lid which I put my hand in and brush the top of.  So, this week those same flies are everywhere.  I tell husband, that’s it, the garbage can goes outside (the inside kitchen one.)  I was refusing to use it.

He took the can out, bleached it, did not wash the outside (I have no idea why that bothers me, but it does) and then proceeds to come in and tell me that the whole domed  lid was covered in ::::::::::   MAGGOTS.  OMG, MAGGOTS.

Freakin, I stuck my hand in that lid.  I felt the warmth and humidity and probably touched them.  OMG, MAGGOTS.

I’m off to shower now, for about five hours.

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Husband has a faulty electrical energy field.  Watches break within minutes of him wearing  them, answering machines stop working, clocks run backward.  There is no end to the mayhem that is my husband.

Once, he went to pick up a brand new refrigerator and by the time he got it home, the only side that was not scratched, dented   or banged was the BACK!  THE BACK!  For crying out loud, couldn’t he have let me have one side???

So, when he was finally given a cell phone (he was the last  to receive one in the family and we were all in trepidation over the gravity of giving him a cell phone), we all held our breath to see what would happen.

It didn’t take long for the phone to fight back.  It repeatedly talks to him when he pulls it out of his pocket to see what time it is.   (Since he cannot wear a watch.)

PHONE:   “Do a command.”

Husband fumbles with buttons.

PHONE:  “DO A COMMAND!”

Husband opens and closes lid.

PHONE:  “LIKE, Call home!”

Okay, his phone is obviously “like, a valley girl.”

Husband begins pushing buttons.

PHONE:  “Calling Home.”

Me:  “Hi.  Whatcha’ want?”

Husband:  “I wanted to know what time it was.”

Me: Pause.  “Ah, if you open the lid of your phone you will see what time it is.”

Husband:  “That’s what you think!”

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I pick on husband quite a lot in this blog.  But, this morning there will be no picking as he has received yet more dire news.  As if twenty years of COPD was not enough!

 

We were hiking, out east, when I came down with flu.  It mostly consisted of a bad headache and exhaustion, but it was enough to send us back home again.  I drove most of the way, from the eastern coast to Indiana, as I recovered and he had become ill. 

 

Round after round of doctors followed for years after, as one clinic/doctor after another eliminated diseases. It was not until we found Jacob Bitran, M.D., who was, at that time, with the University of Chicago, that Roy began to receive help.  Modern medicine has kept him alive since.

 

He smoked for one month total in his whole life, but his father was a smoker and he came into contact with so many chemicals, over a sixteen year period at LTV Steel, that the doctor at Mayo threw the list across the desk and said that there was no telling what caused the COPD as any number of the many chemicals he came into contract with could have done this to his lungs.

 

He tried to work for years, after he was diagnosed.  On the days he worked by the chrome line, he would miss two to three days of work after.  Some days, he would drive all the way to East Chicago, from our home between Griffith and Merrillville; he would get out of the car and walk to the guard shack, where he could rest; then he would walk back to the car, rest and come home again.   It finally got to the point where he felt he just could not do this to his co-workers any longer, as they were working harder to make up for work he could not do.  The mill was wonderful to him and allowed him to keep his job for much longer than any small business owner could have done.

 

On the outside, if you did not work by him or live with him, he looked perfectly normal.  That is unless you were wearing perfume or some such.  To this day, people will sometimes hint to me that there is nothing wrong with him and he is just lazy. They usually only do that one time, as I let them know what life is like for this fifty-seven year old man who now looks like he is nearing nintey.  Restaurants always seat him with my mother instead of me, and when we get the bill, they have given him a senior discount.

 

One problem is that his body produces too many histamines and he is allergic to just about everything: humidity, perfumes, chemicals, cleaning supplies, new carpeting, some plants, lacquers, make-ups, laundry soaps, shampoos.  You name it and he will shut down.  He will take one breath of air and it will be trapped, like a balloon with no opening/outlet.  His airways close up and there is no way to get the air out. 

 

He has had to leave restaurants, in the middle of meals and run out of theatres because of perfume. 

 

So, when he went to the doctor and received four more medications, the other day, because one lung was more congested than normal, it was ‘business as usual’ for us.  Yes, I watch the decline.  Do I know where that decline ends?  No.  It is not something I think about.  When he was diagnosed, the disease gave a person twenty years tops.  Medications have expanded that.  You just live each day.

 

 

I may get very frustrated, but I make sure he takes his medication and I make the doctor’s appointments, even when he does not want to go.  I watch the roof leak, and the pipes leak and the water heater that is failing and I do not harp or nag as, that is not my way.  As a caregiver of my mother and disabled husband,  I vent to you guys.  And, I thank you all for listening. 

 

There have just been too many days like this lately, and it’s hard for me to find a way to make this kind of news humorous.  Master’s Daughter would have you in stitches at this point. 

 

Another blow struck yesterday as the ophthalmologist told Roy he has Macular Degeneration.  One eye already has an expanding blurred spot, but both eyes have dead tissue in the Macular and in the one eye, the blood vessels are all straight, unlike the wavy lines they should have. There is no good prognosis here, only a slowing of the eventual blindness he will have.  Apparently, the premature aging of his body, due to the COPD, is damaging the blood vessels.  In six months the test will be repeated and we will have more of an idea how fast it is progressing.

 

On the plus side, it is not his hearing.  He has always said he would rather lose his sight than his hearing.  He loves music more than anything. 

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Husband has decided he is never going to the doctor again. 

 

He went to his GP yesterday morning so that he could get his ten medications renewed for the year and he walked out with fourteen prescriptions and pneumonia.   I told on him, that his cough was worse than normal and after listening to his chest, the doctor told him why—pneumonia.

 

Then, we picked up mom and took both of them to the Ophthalmologist.  (is that spelled right?  That’s what Word and WordPress says it is.)  Husband has lost his reading glasses, for good this time, and needed to get a new script as one eye is different from the other and WalMart does not carry reading glasses with each eye different. 

 

He, husband—not the doctor, developed a swelling on the back of his eye years ago.  When the swelling went down, the ‘cones’ did not sink right and so he has a blurred spot; that’s what he had been told in the past.  Now, the spot is changing and there is a broken vessel.  The doctor asked what husband had done for a living.  Since he had been a millright and around welding, the doctor thought that might have damaged his eye, however, that was years before.

 

New story but they will tie in at the end.  EMT has been drooling over the S10 truck for some time but it does not work.  He has a friend, through the volunteer fire department who has an S10 in his back yard and loves to work on cars, so this morning he was to drive it over to the guys house and they were going to work on it.  

 

I went out to be in the Voyager to jump the battery on the S10.   Having owned only one new car in my life, I am well versed in jumping car batteries.  However, I have never been in the charger car before when the door locks automatically locked and the speedometer went crazy when the dead battery car tried to start.  It never did start, but I had an epiphany.

 

Third and final story:  Husband’s energy level is very low so when husband and I were rehabbing our house for sale, he would get up early, while he had a little energy and work.  I have to say that rehabbing a house like this takes forever, no one week flip for us.  I usually wake up at the same time every morning, but this one morning I slept a bit late.  I got up, dressed and went out to get the mail.  I came back in and heard a faint cry, “Sheryl.” 

 

It came from the crawl space, and under my feet.   “Sheryl, shut off the electricity.”

 

Yup, husband had crawled into a very wet dirt crawl space and hooked himself up to the electricity and I’m thinking that maybe it acted like a lightning strike on his eye.  I don’t know if that did it but it was shortly after that when he noticed the blurred spot for the first time.

 

He’s still griping about going to the doctor.

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I sit here watching husband pour water back and forth between two plastic juice cans and then holding one up to see that he has gotten every single last drop of juice out of the can and I wonder at just what point are we certifiably our own parents?

I hear myself saying my mother’s words at times and saving things because they “might be useful” someday. I obsessively lock doors, as my father did, which was an irritation to my family until someone near us was killed when two teenagers entered their house. Mind you, the elderly man let them in, but a few days later, someone checked our door lock, at night. This is not something you expect when you live on four acres, in rural Brown County.

There is also the little matter of husband saving every jelly jar and butter and yogurt container we use. I have solved the jar situation with recycling. I no longer have to save them in the cabinet for the time I might make jelly.

The plastic butter and yogurt containers are another matter. We do use them for food scraps. They are free, have a lid to keep it in and when we put them in the garbage, they do not stink. Since we take our garbage in, that is important.

However, there comes a time, when stacks of them are more than enough for disposables. Since I refuse to eat out of them, when we have perfectly good dishes and when re-washing a plastic butter dish is as difficult as washing a plate, at that point I have taken to throwing them out, when he isn’t looking. Just like my mother did.

Sighhhhhhhhh!

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A fight ensued at the last wedding I attended. Albeit, I did start it. But, I was kind-of proud as I very rarely have the privilege to start a fight in that crowd, or any crowd. That is usually reserved for …

 

But, let me digress.  Just try and stop me!

 

At the reception, I was seated at the table with family. We have all known each other for many, many years, as families tend to do. And, I was feeling rebellious. My brother-in-law can be, how shall I put this, “trying.”  He tries to cause trouble, he tries to irritate people, he tries to be a jerk and he TRIES to start fights and succeeds. I, however, rarely do try to start fights. I avoid fights. I hate fights. But, I will fight if need be.

 

His penchant for starting fights is a puzzle to me. Why would anyone get their jollies off  by making an elderly religious lady get into a fight with another elderly religious lady about, well—for starters, religion? Somehow, brother-in-law manages to do this and he greatly enjoys it.  

 

So, for a week before the wedding, I am gearing up for him. He has taken to calling husband, not by his name, that brother-in-law has known for twenty years, but by the term, “skuzzy.” Now, husband really could care less, but mom gets irate about it and I just figured that after fifty years of abuse by this man, it was time to stand up for my family.

 

There was also the little matter of the Bailey’s Irish Crème.  I love Irish Crème. So, as two nephews would get a cup of it, each putting some in their coffee and then handing the remainder to their dear aunt (me) to drink t, I was feeling good.  Three left-overs of Baileys and I was primed.

 

I proudly made the announcement. “Brother-in-law” (I shall not use his real name so as to avoid more of those pesky relative law-suits over my blog.), “Brother-in-law.” I said, “What is my husband’s name?”

 

He looks at me a bit dumbfounded; dumb might be more appropriate.  I continue.

 

“You have known my husband for twenty years, and you know his name.  So, you are to stop calling him ‘skuzzy.’  It is rude and disrespectful.”     

 

Whereupon, he whines. “Why is everyone picking on me, today?”

 

His # 2 son states. “Because you have been picking on people for years and they’ve had it.”

 

I announce, “And, besides, I’ve had three left-over cups of Bailey’s and thought about telling you this for the last week.”

 

At which point, half of those at table, breaks out laughing and the argument is over. 

 

I should have been drinking “Bailey’s” the next day, when brother-in-law said he could not stand people who wear the American flag on their butts and the conversation literally trampled the Constitution for, what seemed like, the next half hour before I could not take it any longer, and made my point about one of the greatest strengths of this nation being the right to free speech.  And, protesting is one of those rights.

 

By the Way: I never mentioned to them that I have never worn the flag on my butt. Why, in any world, would I want to draw attention to my butt? For many years and, since I quite weight lifting, I would not call it my greatest feature.

 

The funny thing is, brother-in-law ended that argument (that went on for quite some time) by announcing, “Hitler had the right idea.”  And, then walking out of the room.

 

The crowd forgot all about me and my little “free speech” issue. 

 

One for brother-in-law.

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Daily Overview: August 22, 2008

AQUARIUS

January 20-February 18

 

You are starting to notice little peculiarities in something at work or at home that should be perfectly normal It’s a good time to investigate further, though you may need to keep things quiet.

 

Gaffer and girlfriend were packing and cleaning all night. They tried very hard to be quiet and I did get some sleep early on but they were scheduled to leave at 5am and , as morning drew closer sleeping was tough. Hugs all around, get back to sleep, alarm goes off to wake the three high school boys up. Usually, the EMT boy gets up early and I can just lay there and hear him moving around and go back to sleep; knowing he will wake the other two up.

 

This morning, silence, not a creature was stirring. So, I reach for the cell phone to call and wake him up. Isn’t that what a cell phone is for? Drats! Husband and I share cell phone and the cell phone is on its way to the airport. Get up, go downstairs, knock on all doors, go back up, fall asleep.

 

EMT boy comes up and says something in his “teenage” speed talk (I thought only girls spoke that fast). I wake up, he comes closer, repeats his mouth of marbles, and I knock over my water. He comes closer and repeats it for the third time. I understand it this time. I do not remember a word, but I know I understood it. Don’t THINK it is urgent.

 

Husband comes back from drive to the airport. In some odd world, he thinks I am awake and speaks to me. Wakes me up. He goes down to “take a nap.” I fall back asleep for last time, with the thought in my head that I am now the babysitter of little rabbit and he needs to get out of his travel cage and into the big cage.

 

I get up a bit later, shower, dress and tackle the rabbit situation. Big cage needs cleaning, BAD! I take it out to hose it down. Water pressure is miniscule. Finally get cage cleaned, papers and bedding down. Water, food and lettuce in bowls in big cage and rabbit in. But, during that process I find one of our many water leaks is under the kitchen sink.  Everything under the sink is wet and mildewed.

 

And, this is why, a few days later, when I went out to water and feed the garden and found the water pressure non-existent, and then hooked up to the faucet on the other end of the house,, at great personal exhaustion as hose was nearly buried, turned it on then, thought I should check it as a few years ago it had flooded my mother’s computer. And, it was supposedly fixed, AND I checked and a waterfall was soaking EMT Boy’s room, that I had a major temper tantrum about my husband never, ever, ever touching anything to do with water again.

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Unlike BrainDebris, I do not live an exciting life, filled with electron microscopes, hilarious husbands, and death defying children. The highlight of my life, this morning, was either, my husband going back to bed, an hour after he got up, because he was dizzy, or hearing oldest boy say, “9 out of 10 things I did made my mother scream.”

 

Lest I seem insensitive and uncaring, let me state, that husband has COPD and all sorts of other interesting side diseases, so dizziness is not a “call the ambulance symptom.” His disease has progressed for twenty years now and it is our life’s norm.

 

Since oldest boy will not enlighten me on the things he did that made his mother scream; only explaining that everything he did made her scream, and middle boy is gone for the week to a Native Sun Dance Festival, and youngest boy is taking an hour nap as getting up and eating breakfast was too exhausting to stay up all day, I am left with irritating Chihuahua.

 

Funniest thing that irritating Chihuahua has done all morning is to run around and sniff all her food hiding spots. She does this on a regular basis, ever since we watched the television special about what would happen if all human life was extinguished.

 

The St. Bernard, down the street, already has a little friend in his pack, so I believe the Chihuahua is concerned she will be on her own to forage for food, should we disappear. She is forgetting that getting out of the house will probably be her biggest problem. So far, the wild rabbits have all been able to outrun her, and she hasn’t figured out how to break into the cage of visiting rabbit yet.

 

So, please excuse me, as I just can’t find a thing to say this morning; opps, make that afternoon.

 

 

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There is an Obsessive Compulsive gene in our family. My mother’s brother once refused to visit her house for three years because the minute he flicked an ash in the ashtray, she would jump up from the card table and wash it; the ash tray not the ash. Since she had given him the ashtray at his place at the table, he mistakenly presumed she meant for him to use it.

 

Mom is good natured about her foible and we have all learned to live with it. If I ever write about my life, I have threatened to title it: My Life in a Ziploc, for I am certain I was born in one. She could not have dealt with the mess otherwise and has worked hard to ensure that everything she owns is wrapped and bagged, preferably in ZipLocs. She alone may be responsible for the success of the company.

 

What happens with children of Obsessive’s? They turn out to be, well, Not-Obsessive. I would rather paint a picture or be outside taking photographs than cleaning stoves and corners. Somehow, I have decided that, since I could not afford a self-cleaning oven, I will just give it away when the dirt creeps under the aluminum foil. Presuming I have sold a book by then. Ah, another thing to spur my novel on.

 

I do have an excuse; my husband has been disabled with COPD for nearly twenty-five years now. We live in a pollution free (note, I did not say dirt free) atmosphere. No smoke, no perfumes (I use Vanilla upon occasion-sounds weird, but what greater scent to evoke love than Mom’s home cooking?), no scented cleaners or shampoos, etc, and certainly no oven cleaner. It’s my legitimate excuse. I am also quite sure this was a big reason why my mother moved into her own apartment. She was in withdrawal for the scent of Lemon Pledge and hairspray.

 

My husband smoked for about a month, until cigarettes hit 25 cents  pack, but his family has “weak” lungs. He was under thirty when we were hiking out east and contracted a virus. It never left him, and damaged his lungs. He is 56 now and he looks 90. Children think he is Santa with his white hair and white beard, and often point at him through their car seat window when we drive past.

 

Once, during a high school concert, a family of six children was sitting in front of us. One little girl kept turning around and looking at my husband, until the end of the concert, when she stage whispered to her dad. “Daddy, did you know Santa was sitting behind us?” Then, there was the little boy who came up to him in a store and thanked him for the presents he (the child)had received last year.

 

My husband’s chubby cheeks have taken on a sunken look in the past year and, when we go to a restaurant, they give him a seat next to mom and a senior discount. There are perks.

 

What happens to the grandchild of an Obsessive? Since the gene skipped my generation, they may be obsessive too. I have a granddaughter who is “my girl.” Other children cling to their brothers or their grandfather, but this girl took one look at me, when she was three months old and decided I belonged to her. The look was pure adoration. It is so nice to be adored by someone. However, this poor thing has inherited the Obsessive gene.

 

At two, with a baby sister ensconced in her room, Rachel would wait until sister, Leah, finished her bottle, then she would get up and bring the bottle down to someone to, either: 1. Get it out of her room and/or 2. Have it cleaned. Her brothers used to torment her by rearranging the Christmas presents under the tree as she took her nap.

 

Occasionally, I have caught myself doing things that frighten me; counting steps, color coding clothing and coat hangers. I stop, mix them up and don’t look back. I do not want to even go there. Perhaps that is why I don’t want to spend time cleaning, because I love a clean house. I really do. But, what would happen to me if I started cleaning. I might not know when to stop? Do you buy that??? If so, see me about some property.

 

I do like my studio straightened up before every new project and I loved having a clean house when I had a house large enough to do that. I seem unable to keep this small one, with six adults, clean. There just isn’t enough closet/storage area and things spill out and about. When the table gets too piled, I make the boys put there things away. It looks nice for a day. I do NOT pile things on the table myself, I have a dresser for that, which has a printer on it and two years worth of filing and paperwork.

 

Told you I did not inherit the obsessive gene and one day the boys will move out and there will be room to keep things clean. Darn! I will miss them.

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