a new edition

Today my father arrives home from the hospital, a week of surgery re-cooperation and two weeks of rehabilitation and although he is nowhere near close to being 'healed' as they will not know the results of the surgery for six months to one year, his attitude has been upbeat, his demeanor calming and his determination on making a full recovery promising as he has set personal goals, however small they may be, but goals none the less and now it will be interesting to watch the other members of the family assist, which is something we all know this family is capable of, but has failed at every recent attempt.

It will be interesting to see if his drive and determination continues when he is strolled into the environment he left, an environment of bad habits and little else than the television set as stimulation. Now, he will have physical therapy three times a week, need help bathing, lifting, carrying and moving for not a day or a week but for many weeks to come and with this amount of attention needed, the stress levels are bound to increase and how each person channels their energy will play a crucial role into his recovery or his returning to habits of old.

I personally hope that when he sees my drive, my will my no is not an option attitude it may inspire him as he has already told me one of his goals is to walk with me down the street, not far he said, but a ways down the street. That ways would speak volumes to me in his ability and my
hope and will to travel on this journey that is my life.

And all the bickering and bantering, the bitching and the yelling that once surrounded these walls in stereo sound have to discontinue or the habits of old will lurk their heads, take hold and refuse to let go, surgery unsuccessful. A dysfunctional family showing its ugly colors one more time for all those watching and listening to see and hear.

Yesterday I was listening to music from my I-Touch as I often do on my walks and a line of a song came across and through my ears and still remains there: "I wish my death would get sick." I stood there for a moment and paused, with a grin planted on my face and continued as I trundled down the path to somewhere.

white collar 'narc heads'

I found myself sickened as I listened to the phone ring this morning over and over and then over again, me having a instinctual hunch of who was calling and upon looking at the caller id, the missed calls and the beeping of a pending message my hunch turned into reality as the neighbor, past the point of addiction, called from the wee hours until I finally returned his calls, pleading and begging for a drug that he was convinced was in my possession, his sick mind having falsely calculated as to when my medication was due, his plight to get a glimpse, a sight and more likely a taste of that which I have repeatedly told him No, as often as I have told Ashley Marie not to roll in the grass in the backyard that sits dormant, lookinh more like a field of hay than any sort of yard.

Still, he proceeded and refused to give up, me getting sicken at the thought of his innocent wife (although she is a physician and has to notice the physical decay that has taken place in a short number of months) and the two children they bore that act more adult than he was capable on this morning and several others as the calls continue for a drug, one he will not receive from me, but one he has convinced himself is his and should be taken by him and his pleading and begging bothersome, sick and a sad state of affairs.

Today he was not satisfied with a no and drove down to my parents residence in is Mercedes Station Wagon, rolling down the window and offering me nothing short of the title of his new car, wheeling and dealing as if he was a used cars saleman, until finally I walked away and went inside, leaving him to screech his tires and find his fix somewhere, but not here nor anywhere near me.

It left a sour taste in my mouth, beyond sour, bitter like the bite of a rotting apple or a cookie, stale and not properly made, salt substituted where the sugar was supposed to be. I walked and I re-centered and felt compelled to write as I, trying desperately to continue to defeat the odds, watch as one sits in a corner and rocks as his life passes him by, the addiction taking hold and his marrow craving the drug, any drug, him stopping at little to find it, and sadly use it for more than recreational purposes but as a necessity to him accomplishing anything in a course of a day.