A month or two ago, Dad, who is pushing 90: “I got all the drama shit done by the time I was thirty”. He’s been married to his second wife, my Mom, for over fifty years. I’d been bitching about my ex and how things went down over the last year (It actually was really, really bad, and am not just talking about her kicking me in the brain - talking about cutting back on drinking and figuring out you’re bipolar and going crazy in the process type of bad and trying to figure out medications and the correct dosages while still trying to stay functional at work. A grown man constantly sobbing for months on end except when seeing mental health patients - seeing patients was kind of an escape, I guess. Shit, just teared up a bit while writing that, but nothing like it would have been a year ago).
Last week, Sunday morning, Mom called up about two or so. Dad had tripped over a space heater while getting up out of his chair in the TV room. Drunk to the point that I look like a teetotaler. I didn’t realize he’d been drinking like this - I’ve seen him like that years ago but thought he’d cut back after he got through the melanoma treatments and usually just have been meeting him for lunch - Mom tells me he drinks about a fifth of Irish whiskey a day. I do believe her - I went over for the college football national championship and he drank at least the equivalent of two coffee mugs full of brandy or whiskey or whatever it was during the game. And that was just during a four hour period - I have no idea what he’d drunk prior.
Lots of blood and skin tears on his head. Took over an hour to patch him up and then another hour to carry him up the stairs and get him into the bed. Had to yell at him a few times - he’s stubborn as hell and tried to get out of the chair while I’m applying dressings and yelling at him what to do while I’m getting him upstairs - he’s also pretty much deaf. It was pretty much like Noah’s sons went through.
He’d also done this after just having had cataract surgery a few days prior, and could have screwed his eye up - that eye was red. Hasn’t called up since, and I like to think he’s embarrassed, but I don’t see how he’d remember it other than the wounds. I wrote down instructions on wound care, what doctor to see, and who to call regarding the cataract issue. Hope they did all of that.
Mom will not call 911 to save her life, never mind his. Doctor-phobe. She told me I’m her 911. That’s great, except one of these nights it’s going to be a broken bone or brain bleed and she’ll call while I’m asleep and I won’t listen to the voicemail until it’s too late. Almost happened once a few years ago - I dropped by in the morning just to say hi and he’d been on the floor for six hours and ended up in the hospital with rhabdo for a few days and was in rehab for ten.
Dad’s literally a genius. Supposedly, I’m close. Same with Mom. But that doesn’t mean shit when you make terrible life choices and are stubborn.
Sorry, got to vent sometimes, even if it’s in a forum of guys who’re trying to make their dicks bigger.