Giving Care

I guess you could call it reconnecting. After spending time with your father and brother mostly in tidy, digestible six-hour nuggets for the past two or three decades, you’re again living with them.

Twenty-four hours a day. Seven days a week.

You’ve forgotten how utterly slovenly your brother is. Where the phylum housekeeping is concerned, your brother is a genus unto himself, with no known connection to the remainder of mankind.

You wonder why there are two rolls of toilet paper on his bathroom floor, but a bare cardboard cylinder in the wall-mounted dispenser. You wonder what the black stuff creeping up the sliding glass shower doors is.

And you wonder what he thinks a towel rack is for after you spy a mound of towels (interspersed with dirty laundry) heaped on the bathroom counter. The ring of facial hair that circles the sink is revolting.

Your regard for humanity prohibits you from detailing the condition of the toilet.

You peer into his bedroom.

After successfully locating a government-issue Haz-Mat suit, you venture inside. You find yourself subconsciously developing a business plan for a second-hand clothing store after taking in the closets-full of clothing strewn about.

You believe this room is carpeted, but are unable to find a patch of floor not covered by the ephemera that has fallen, leaf-like, from the tree of your brother’s life.

While you have the back-up discs for your computer’s operating system carefully stored in paper sleeves in a small file box, your brother has seen fit to let them lie where they fell or were dropped. They lie alongside the CD-Rs of music you laboriously compiled and labeled for his listening enjoyment and innumerable discs of once-important data.

Some are even unscratched.

There is enough change on the floor to buy a new car. You want to pick it up and pocket it, but the Haz-Mat suit prohibits this.

And the laundry hamper your sister bought and labeled with a sign reading DIRTY CLOTHES GO HERE stands empty, as forlorn as a clearance-priced Christmas ornament that has lingered on store shelves into late-January.

Yet he won’t touch the sponge in the kitchen sink, and instead grabs three or four dozen paper towels to gingerly, almost delicately, wipe the remains of a lasagna dinner from his dinner plate because he knows, with unshakeable certainty, that the sponge is laden with deadly bacteria and fatal viruses.

Upon getting up in the morning, you can trace the path of his nocturnal eating forays by the trail of cellophane, half-empty cookie boxes, glasses and empty soda containers scattered throughout the house.

Albert Einstein would reportedly become so involved in his calculations he would forget to eat. You aren’t that lucky.

You find tolerance more-easily for your father, he having recently survived a year-long bout with C-diff, the installation of a pacemaker, unsuccessful knee-replacement surgery and the mild dementia that is the byproduct of his advancing years.

Yet you are forcibly returned to adolescence when you take him to the doctor and discover anew his ability to discern upcoming potholes, road debris and to measure the distance between you and the car ahead of you.

Without access to the speedometer, he can assess your speed and the threat it poses to Western Civilization. Even more remarkably, he can calculate the g-forces you generate as you corner and brake.

After several trips, you are tempted to suggest that he seek employment with a car magazine, as his ability to perform these calculations internally would surely save them a great deal of money on testing equipment.

Then there is the issue of food. It is a big one.

Your father, being the product of a certain generation, is essentially helpless in the kitchen. Conversely, he lives to eat. This creates a sizeable quandary when, for the first time in your parent’s marriage, your mother is hospitalized.

But between hospital visits, setting-up in-home after care, shopping, chauffeuring, cleaning and fielding a myriad of phone calls, all while trying to perform a job search and maintain a suddenly long-distance relationship, you are only marginally inclined to cook.

By dinner time, a bottle of beer and a frozen entrée are pretty much all you’re able to muster. You wonder how your mom did it.

While your vision of hell frequently involves either employment or the lack of it, your father’s is nine straight days of prepared food.

His stoicism soon turns to grousing and finally, a form of pleading, which wears the unmistakable scent of desperation. You relent and dine out. You make a mental note to at least sprinkle some basil and tomato on the next frozen pizza.

You smile at the irony of having told your father, in the gentlest manner possible, that money doesn't grow on trees.

But you eventually realize it’s not all fear of sponges and back seat driving.

Evening frequently finds the three of you together in the quiet repose of a good book, or held captive in the flickering light of an absorbing movie. It is an experience not frequently known, and one that silently joins the three of you.

Certain personality traits have resisted time, like the cap rock atop mesas and buttes. They endure, like stubborn sentrys.

You make your peace with them, because they are you and you are them.

The Trouble with Siblings

Someone once said that while you can choose your friends, fate relieves us of that responsibility when it comes to siblings. They are assigned, like social security numbers, college roommates and eye color.

I was assigned three—two sisters and a brother. All of them are younger, which I suppose makes me the oldest. For the most part, I enjoy good relationships with them—except one. A sister. She and I have problems. Big problems.

My sister is a cornucopia of irritating personality traits. She loves the word ‘we’. She uses it to confer upon herself some kind of imaginary spokesman status, so when she issues one of her declarations it isn’t just her opinion, but the shared conclusion of a group. This coalition is usually whatever family members, friends, relatives, etc. aren’t in the room.

My sister is also prone to exaggeration. No one is ever upset, they’re PISSED OFF! My sister is all capital letters and exclamation points. She is also a fire-starter. And she needs lots of attention, which probably goes a long way in explaining her other traits.

She likes nothing better than saying something outrageous and having every head in the room turn towards her.

The same person who refused to be her sister’s bridesmaid because it would entail the wearing of a dress (an act which would reduce her to a cultural stereotype) is the same person who endlessly criticizes me when my hair is long because I don’t, in her words, “look masculine and professional.”

Hmmm. Let me think about that one.

She spins like a campaign manager. She is a commitment phobe. And she is cheap cheap cheap cheap cheap. (And it’s not ornithology of which I speak.) It’s best to take her with a salt mine or two. And to remember she needs to be filtered, translated and above all, managed. And it is exhausting.

Did I mention she is hyperactive with traces of OCD and ADD?

Like I said, we have problems.

When my parents sold our childhood home several years ago, I was unable to help with the move as I had recently lost a job and was working a temporary one which allowed no time off. Despite the gaggle of family, in-laws and professional movers, it was my sister’s opinion that my absence made the move three or four times as difficult as it needed to be.

Upon returning home, she called me and vented. And vented. And vented. She used the word ‘we’. She exaggerated. She spun.

A bit shaken, I called home. Imagine my surprise when no one was even remotely irritated by my absence.

I was now angry as well. I had seen this move coming. I had spent time on three earlier trips home helping my folks go through closets and crawlspaces and garage rafters, a claim my finger-pointing sister couldn’t make. I wrote her a long letter, with copies sent to my siblings to prevent exaggeration and spin and myth-making.

It stopped her in her tracks.

Then there was my move from New Mexico last fall. My sister volunteered to come down, ostensibly to help my girlfriend and I. That it also meant a free vacation and a free trip home were only convenient asides.

I was hesitant to accept, but an injury to my girlfriend’s lower-back precluded long stretches behind the wheel, and the discovery that there is absolutely no way one driver can operate three vehicles simultaneously was tough to ignore. With the voice of experience screaming “No! No! No!” I accepted her offer.

We agreed that after arriving she would first sightsee and then embark on a ten-day camping trip while my girlfriend and I finalized details of the move. My sister would return to help with packing, loading the truck and the drive east.

Wanting to make the leap of faith that might repair our fractured relationship, I loaned her my car for the camping trip. This despite knowing she and I view cars about as differently as it is possible for two people to view them.

For my sister, they are maintenance-free appliances which invariably become dented and scratched and are then discarded. I do silly things like change the oil and flush the radiator and never, ever park next to pick-up trucks and vehicles likely to contain great numbers of children and distracted parents.

With assurances that she would treat my car as I did, she set off for the Gila National Forest. I didn’t drive my car again until after arriving in Milwaukee. When I did, it was clear my car wasn’t in the same condition it was when it left New Mexico. The right front wheel pinged when I accelerated. The driver’s side window was off-track and didn’t close completely. And the rear bumper was covered with scratches.

This after she bailed-out early because the cross-country move wasn’t proving to be as fun as she thought it would be. Which is another thing about my sister. She can’t tolerate anything that isn’t fun. If it’s not a ride on a Tilt-a-whirl, sis has problems with it.

For my part, I confess that leaving New Mexico just as the nation’s economy was having a melt-down didn’t have me doing cartwheels and handsprings.

But no fun? Me? Didn’t you read my last post? OK—kidding.

Fast forward to August. My sister is visiting—again. I make an obligatory appearance. Like Obama and his fantasy of bipartisanship, hope springs eternal. (I am nothing if not the dutiful son/brother/employee.)

There are lots of people there. I am thankful for this because they act as buffers which neutralize my sister. Later, after everyone else has gone, my immediate family asks me how I’m doing.

I tell them about the job market. I tell them applying for work is like playing the lottery, with odds that are only a little better. I tell them how I waited in line for an hour and-a-half to submit an application for a job as a supermarket cashier.

I don’t tell them about the part-time temporary job that would have me knocking on doors in the most-dangerous neighborhoods in Milwaukee (with a shiny new laptop in tow), doing follow-up interviews for a government study. I tell them it is ugly out there. U-G-L-Y.

My sister, whom I haven’t spoken to since December, asks me when I’ll be able to repay the $109.00 she mistakenly charged to her credit card during the move. (My girlfriend and I had agreed to pick-up her lodgings and gas during the trip east.)

I tell her that was also the first question out of her mouth in December, and that nothing has changed. I again tell her that when I have money that isn’t needed for rent, utilities, gasoline and food, she will be paid. I ask when would be a good time to talk. She says there isn’t one.

I say goodnight and leave.

The news that the $109.00 went to the repair of my car window will be met with derision and the kind of screeching only a personality like my sister's could create.

The fact that I didn’t opt for the $500.00 dealership repair (which would mean she owed me money) but instead found a salvage yard with the appropriate regulator and had it installed for less than half that (which means I owe her ten-dollars and change) will be completely ignored.

My sister has adopted the belief that we are responsible for everything that happens to us. There are no accidents. No misfortune. No bad luck. Only good and bad choices. She sees other people’s lives in perfect hindsight, and freely dispenses what the work world calls “feedback”.

She doesn’t know it, but she would adore The Secret. She’d likely set it cover-out on a high shelf and light votive candles on either side of it.

And I have come to agree with her. It is about good and bad choices. And at long last I understand that continuing this relationship is a very bad choice. Our relationship requires vast amounts of effort with only brittle co-existence to show for it. It’s sad and it hurts, but what is, is.

Yeah, it’s all about the choices.