Caterwauling

So Mom’s 67th birthday is coming up.

She will be forever 66. Young, beautiful, happy, sweet. Forever pretty. Forever loved and lovable and loving.

She deserved so much better than all this. She wanted to be here. She wanted to be my mom. She said she had so much more to teach me. She worried that I won’t be OK or know what to do in situations I haven’t encountered yet.

I mean, I’m 50. I’ll do the best I can. But, yeah, a girl needs her momma. Well, let me rephrase, given some of the mothers I’ve encountered. THIS girl needs HER momma.

I knew I would be a fucking mess. I am. I cannot hold it together and it’s fruitless to try.

So I booked a trip.

Come to find out that one of my staffers also booked a trip. Out of the country.

Our payroll system is strange, so we usually just input our days closer to the time off so we don’t go into deficit.

So when I looked and saw no one else was off, I was relieved and booked my week.

Well.

Person reminded me that they always take off around this time. Which is true and fair.

So I moved all my reservations to the weekends. Well, almost all of them. And I booked an extra four nights to do it.

I’m just going to keep saying well. Because, well, the nonrefundable, pet-friendly hotel just informed me that I cannot bring cats.

I said fine. My mom just passed and I have my cat AND hers, and I am going to need that money back to go someplace else.

Suddenly cats are fine! But you have to pay the dog rate.

Which, thanks to the extra-long stay is going to be upward of $500.

I don’t mind the working. I am the boss and all. And frankly I like my edits when I take over things that aren’t always mine to edit.

Also I am just grateful to have a job. My mental capacity is diminished. They give me all the rope I need to climb back when I’m ready.

But, maybe the whole reason why I cannot get my brain back together is I am not able to fully disengage.

Like our Cocoa Beach trip. It was supposed to be half work, half personal. Turned into all work. And that’s fine because I will get the tax break for it. And frankly I LOVED IT. Had so much fun.

But … I really really really wanted that day at the beach that I didn’t get.

At least with going away for a long time, I will at least have some awesome dinner options when I do log off.

And we worked it out that I will work for 80% of the week and she’ll cover the weekday I wish to be unavailable. Skipping that day’s meeting is vacation enough.

So, with the publishing of this post, I will release my annoyance.

I just needed to crab a bit about it first.

My plan was to tour some houses. Maybe this is all for my higher good that I can’t. Who knows.

I was reading some copy that someone in my company was about to put out.

I saw a glaring error. The dog-whistle, right-wing “Democrat candidate” bullshit.

When I said, hey, it’s DemocratIC when used as an adjective, I got this back:

“Oh, OK. We didn’t know it would be Harris when we wrote this.”

So, Democrat candidate if Biden but Democratic if Harris. Got it.

I cannot believe I have to go through life without my sweet, smart, kind, caring, beautiful, loving mother. Who would have been able to respond beautifully so I don’t have to.

And also, it was so nice to have a friend because I don’t know how to keep all this to myself without imploding like ReMorse does at the slightest perceived (and mostly manufactured) inconvenience.

And not Vytas Reid the weather guy in West Palm Beach. Though seriously fuck that stupid red plaid jacket he wears every goddamned day. Mom and I hated watching him.

Specifically, I say fuck VITAS the nursing home agency in the Palm Beaches.

I got a call from them yesterday, following up on some allegations I made a few months ago.

They tried to call several times. But it was only, um, last weekend that I could even admit publicly that my mother had died.

Also this guy who calls usually asks for my mom by name. So I just say no she can’t come to the phone right now.

Other times he calls and refers to me by my last name. Like yesterday, he asked for Mom and I said she’s not here. He said oh ok is this (last name).

My reply was one of my trademark exasperated sighs.

Anyway he said he has done an investigation and he’s been missing my statement on what was reported to him.

Honestly I’d forgotten about it all. But hey, since we are here reopening the wound, pop some corn, Sparky. I got issues.

I put Mom in the hospital last August. The third or fourth hospital system at that point, I’d lost count.

Anyway, the pain was uncontrollable and would never be controlled. And the treatment options were all pretty terrible.

But rather than be human, the medical director said welp fine then, call hospice. Have a good rest of your life.

Just kidding. She wasn’t that nice to say have a nice anything.

Mom was appalled. She felt OK. Hospice, really?

After Cocoa died in January, I could tell something changed in Mom. I mean, I have never been the same, either. But she had said something like she wishes she could have gone first, so Cocoa could have comforted me through that.

I mean, she also said I’d probably miss Cocoa more. Which … maybe I do. But in a totally different way.

Hindsight being what it is, I think things happened in the right order. Mom was here to comfort me through all my big losses. So I was better equipped to handle losing her.

Anyway, in March, it was clear that the pain was getting worse. Our last car ride was in March 24. I still have the parking receipt from Deerfield Beach. 3/24/24 at 4:24 p.m.

I should have played the lottery. But at that point, we were all basically on autopilot.

Second week of April, I called hospice. There are really only two options here, and the other one had even worse reviews than VITAS.

Justin was my main nurse. He was useless. He liked to sit here and stare at the water and talk about himself and play on his phone.

When I got the bill from Medicare last week for “skilled nursing services” — for over a thousand dollars an hour — I laughed. The second good laugh I got this summer.

I told the guy who called me yesterday, “You guys sent me a request for a donation last month. It was the first I laughed all summer. And I am tempted to call Medicare and report fraud.”

Justin did not provide a thousand dollars’ worth of care once a week. I was the one doing all the bathing, lifting, wound-dressing.

He did not do SHIT.

He did not give me supplies. He told me Medicare pays for supplies and he did not get me anything I asked for. Save for the one day he fished a pair of XS gloves out of his trunk.

I told the caller, there is NOTHING about me that is extra small. Fuck this idiot.

Also, I said your doctor on call in the Boynton office is a joke. His name is Ichabod or ItchyBalls or something. Anyway I said this guy stood in my house and took calls from other patients. Has anyone mentioned HIPAA to him.

And what’s worse is how he and Justin covered for each other. It took eight days to get pain medication ordered. EIGHT DAYS.

Both of these fools blamed each other. Justin said the doctor is new. (To doctoring?) The doctor said Justin is busy.

I know Justin ain’t making no thousand dollars an hour. Hell Justin even said I should pursue nursing because you really only need a pulse to pass the meager requirements in Florida. And there’s job security because there are so many sick people and no one wants to work in the field.

I said my cousin did hospice for her mom, and they would get pain meds at midnight, the day they asked.

I said you run a clown show there. And then for Justin to have the nerve to ask me out for tacos while my mother was trying to tell him about her pain?

I don’t even care about the getting solicited in my own home. Someone should tell his wife and kids though.

Also like I told the caller, I’m over here ordering supplies off Amazon and groceries off Instacart and food for delivery.

I didn’t tell him, but since my memories are coming back to me now, there was a good three weeks where I did not set foot outside of my house other than to buy pain patches at Walgreens.

VITAS thought I was problematic because I stopped letting Justin in. I always had an excuse. Mom told me to tell him — and eventually Renie at the Boynton office — I’m always on calls and don’t have time to entertain this joker.

Eventually Renie sent a different nurse, Mariel. And I loved her.

Mariel actually texted on her off days to ask how Miss Robin was. And did she need anything.

And I’d get the pills or whatever in the next day or two. Whenever that Spanish mail-order pharmacy with the “empanada” sounding name could figure it out.

And then there was Sarah the night nurse. Who arrived exactly five minutes after Mom died. Not her fault. I had called the Boynton office and she drove up from Boca.

I tell you, everything in Boynton is cursed. I knew we were doomed when that was our main office. Real talk, if I could have moved us to any other city, I would have.

In any event, I confessed my rage to Sarah. After she helped me with the funeral director and all that, she went and reported it all.

Good girl.

Anyway I told the caller I don’t have plans to pursue any sort of litigation. Justin and ItchyBalls were absolute failures, but Mariel and Sarah were good to me when I needed them most.

The caller said he would talk to Justin. That this is unprofessional and unacceptable.

I said I really don’t care what you do. But as a supervisor, I concur that you have to address bad behavior.

I did emphasize that my mom was LUCKY to have me to take care of her. I feel bad for people who have to let in these idiots and never get their supplies or the high-price-tag care that Medicare thinks they are getting.

My guess is they probably don’t like Justin and want to fire him, and they needed me to do help them do it.

My guess is ItchyBalls isn’t going anywhere.

OH! So Mom passed on Father’s Day at 2:47 a.m. That’s when she took her last breath.

She opened her eyes super briefly, closed them, and was gone.

After the insanity that was the previous three hours, it was nice to see her at peace.

Sarah got stuck at the broken front gate (heavy sigh) at 3 a.m. so I had to run down and let her in.

I mean, why not let Mom down one last time, right? Me and the HOA.

Sarah pronounced her at 3:25 a.m.

The undertaker was sweet and cute and he said I could have all the time I wanted with her. But I said the best way to honor her is to get her the fuck out of this place before all the fraggles wake up.

By 5 a.m., I was alone for good.

Sarah said VITAS offers caregiver support for a year. I said please tell them never to call me.

I got a call Monday afternoon. The CNA I had been waiting for because I was breaking Mom’s and my backs with bathing attempts, was at my doorstep.

They never told her Mom had passed.

I don’t blame her. I blame that fucking clown show that is VITAS Hospice in Boynton Beach, Florida. With locations in Delray Beach, Boca Raton and West Palm Beach. For the Google crawlers.

I didn’t get her ashes back for well over a week. The funeral director happens to live in this complex (trademark heavy sigh) and he finally called me to say we cannot get a doctor here for some reason.

OK I grew up in the funeral industry and I never, first of all, had to have a medical professional make the call for me. And second, she’s been in a freezer for how many days and you need a doctor to tell you she’s dead?

Well.

So anyway a month ago I needed to use her death certificate to close her bank account, as TD had frozen it and I was like nope, MINE.

The doctor’s name on the death certificate …

ItchyBalls.

They had to dig up this motherfucker to fail my mother one more time?!

And no fucking wonder I had to wait so long. Where the fuck was he, itching his balls in someone else’s house?!

OH MY GOD I HATE VITAS HOSPICE IN BOYNTON BEACH. HATE IT HATE IT HATE IT SO MUCH BURN IT TO THE FUCKING GROUND.

I took a selfie a couple weeks ago with a giant jalapeño margarita.

This was before the nice guys bought me tequila and the one said how I had deep sadness about me.

It was the first selfie I posted since March, when Mom’s health took a turn. Because I looked even sadder in all the previous ones.

This was the first selfie I took after she left. I went to the Triple Moon Tour and the seat next to me randomly opened up like Momma sat down. I had to capture this just to say I am glad you are still with me, Mom.

Sadness rides shotgun with me now, friends.

I did get a rare moment of happiness last week when an old friend from my Phillips years popped up.

I might have reached out first, because I saw something that made me think of him.

He had already seen it and was planning to send it to me.

He also said he would buy me Casamigos shots.

I said what?

I had NO IDEA that this person was still my Faceypages friend. Tom sold the company the same year Facebook was created. Back when you friended everyone you ever met.

Sneaky boy.

Also his message. Um, swoon? Swoon-ish, for real.

Also, what a breath of fresh air from the friend requests I get every now and again from someone who defriended me across every platform.

Someone who cussed me out via text and who pops up every August for some reason.

(I was in my “1989” era when I knew you, buddy. “Folklore” and especially “August” is about someone else. You can have “Black Dog” from TTPD, though. Maybe “Smallest Man Who Ever Lived” but I think that’s a better fit for Scott Borchetta/Scooter Braun and another SB I won’t yet name.)

Ed Kelce sums up your obsession in five words.

Someone whose posts I don’t miss because they whined and complained and refused to take any life advice offered.

In case I wasn’t clear on Xitter, Sparky, I don’t miss you like you miss me.

I don’t even THINK about you.

Talk to that dope who’s paying your bills.

And give me a fucking refund for my Chicago trips. Cheap fucker.

Moving on.

I put up another selfie yesterday. Well, two, as I do different ones for Faceypages and Instagram since I limit access to me on the former and therefore I’m a bit freer.

I thought it looked OK. Of course, I was in a dark Italian restaurant and I didn’t have my glasses.

And I could hear my mom saying, “Wait till you’re pretty again to put up a selfie.”

Not that she would ever say I wasn’t pretty. I was always her favorite thing to look at and talk to.

But there were a few times when she told me to reconsider a selfie. She knew Cindy — who not only couldn’t take a good selfie if she tried, bragged about not trying — would rejoice at seeing puffy eyes and no makeup.

Anyway, Mom’s voice comes through all the time like this. I hope it always does. I hope I always hear her above everyone else who has the audacity to not be dead instead.

As I looked at my stupid little pics with non-bleary eyes last night, I thought about taking them down.

But really, I wear my sadness like a badge. In place of the obituary I’ve never written.

I don’t want to hear from all her idiot exes who pretended they wanted to be a dad to me.

Especially this one.

Also, since we’re talking about my superfans, THAT is what’s worthy of the #curlsofinstagram hashtag. (WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE, BTW.)

And I don’t want her jealous high school friends to write about it giddily in their alumni group now that the beautifulest and sweetest one — their competition — is now gone.

I’ve barely told anyone, though a few astute Faceypages friends picked up the sudden lack of interaction from Mom on my wall.

My final post on hers.

She last used Facebook on my birthday. Of all the gifts she gave me, and those were plentiful, the fighting to stay alive for it so that I would hate a different day is one of the best.

My friend Jim lost his dad on his birthday in the middle of May. He was planning to take the day off to go with Dad to the casino. Now Jim is sitting on Steelers season tickets and faced with either selling them or taking his hippie druggie uncle.

We got to commiserating over that. I said I do talk to one of Mom’s friends. And while I appreciate that she texts me every time she thinks of Mom, I don’t want to hear from her. I want my Mom. And Jim said the same thing — the uncle calls him but it will never be the same. Not even close.

So, while Jim’s birthday is ruined forever, for me it’s Father’s Day.

Which honestly was always shitty and don’t even get me started that my bio dad and his mother and his other two stupid kids are all breathing just fine.

And don’t get me started on my stepdad. Who I forgot about except for Mucinex commercials since he looks like that snot.

But I saw “It Ends With Us” yesterday, and boy did I get flashbacks.

My Momma was SO STRONG for getting us away from him. Thank god for her and my grandparents.

It’s not that I choose violence for Butch; I choose justice. And I pray it’s the same thing.

The days between my birthday and Father’s Day are a blur.

It was painful and ugly and beautiful all at the same time.

How she died pretty after all that is beyond me. But of course she did.

I was OK in the immediate aftermath. The front gate broke (of course it did) so I had to run downstairs to let in all the people I needed to let in at 3 a.m.

The undertaker told me to leave the room so he could load her up. I said nope, I grew up in this business. And I helped with the lift.

I told mom I got her a cute undertaker. And I watched her do a “Once Around” in our ridiculous circle.

Which, I know she would appreciate and I wanted so badly to TELL her how ironic it was.

Holly Hunter and Richard Dreyfus would get it.

But, she was off, taken by something she saw coming fast and she told me, “Something’s coming for me. I gotta go.”

My OK never lasts long. My friend Tony checks in every day. He said you’ll cry every day for three months. Eventually you’ll get to the point where you’re just deeply sad but the tears won’t come so easily.

Well, two months in, he’s not wrong.

I read a really great article about “When the Caregiving Ends.” It was helpful.

(I am sure Cindy, who put her husband on blast by tweeting that he’s learning to be a better caregiver, will memorize it like the malignant narcissist she is. You have NO idea what it’s like to be a caregiver. Though it’s easier when the recipient is a caring person. And, you know, dying.)

My cousin sent me a book from a psychic about receiving signs. I get a lot of signs, so I haven’t been in a rush.

It’s 619 for my grandfather.

But there was one point in the forward that I actually DID stop crying.

She said what if your loved one’s final, most loving gift to you is to stop having you watch their suffering? To stop having to worry and rush to hospitals and just sit and breathe for a while?

Anyway, I didn’t want my first real post about my mom to be about everyone else. But as she would say, when was anything NOT about me (Goddess)?

That’s where the real guilt was. I worked too much, too many hours and had too much going on to be much of a companion. She was stuck in the house and had to be quiet/out of sight for my endless stream of video calls.

I have to thank them for letting me be barely effective for five months now. Though I should have given her this “off” time, not myself.

I got to see Cocoa Beach. And drink everything in it. Margarita Tour 2024.

Welp. I just moved my desk to “her” spot. It’s a nice spot with a great view. But I feel even more like shit for doing it.

However, here’s the rub. Her friend (that I was just kvetching about) said to me, don’t feel guilty. You’ll maybe feel closer to her there.

Huh.

She’s … not wrong.

Packing up a house means unpacking first. Oy.

I mean, she’s still not Mom. And I still don’t trust anyone enough to say the how and why of it all.

But, I’ve had conversations and made connections that I never would have.

That I didn’t have time and bandwidth for.

The Psychology Today article really hits home because, as the person directly responsible for everything, you will forever wonder what you could have done to improve quantity and quality of life for your loved one.

I wish I could have added that time to when she was still good. More trips, more anything. Not to the end. God, not to the end.

She didn’t want to go. She didn’t believe she’d go. I don’t even think she accepted it till whatever came for her, came.

I do have some fun ghost stories to tell. I’ll save those for another day. But, I had a house full.

I am pretty sure I got a hug from my grandfather. I mean, I was reasonably sure, but when Mom asked the next day (her final day) if her Daddy was here, well. Chills.

Anyway. I’m at the point where I either go join her or figure out how to extend my own quality/quanity of life.

I’m leaning toward embracing my “Reputation” era or maybe even my “Vigilante Shit” era.

I have zero time for anything that isn’t going to make me happy or bring me peace.

What I do know is I literally lost my better half. And this insane post is my origin story for what comes next.

Happy August to those who celebrate!

And a happy five-year anniversary to this tweet.

I call bullshit because phones would have been ringing all over town. Because they knew Martina McBride’s music before I was ever born. And they maybe typed her name too, which obviously gives them ownership rights.

Just like the bakery MY friend owned, how they had to go on and on and on about how they went there FIRST. Jesus. I didn’t even mention when he sold the place — it was hilarious watching her cling to this absolute line of nonsense that it was hers. Honey, KEEP IT if it means that much to you. Unlike you, I was going to support my friend, not for Twitter fodder.

Anyway. I figured this week marks a milestone, so I should commiserate the anniversary, in case Hellsa still hasn’t let it go and needs someone to share it with.

Oh, what a valiant roar

What a bland goodbye

The coward claimed he was a lion

I’m combing through the braids of lies

“I’ll never leave” …

“Never mind”