Little things that hurt

Like my finger. last nite I was getting ready to go to a birthday party and I was tucking my jeans into my boots, when, bam...jammed my ring finger on my right hand hard enough to tear the tendon, now it's kind of dangling downward. It's splinted now and it's not hurting just really annoying and inconvenient.

And typing is way tough!!! But here goes...

And yet it's nothing compared to what my dad is going through. He's in assisted living now, but contrary to what we hoped, he's not thriving. he's not even going to bingo, which is the activity we hoped he would want to join. But he's getting to breakfast lunch and dinner, and going right back to bed. Sleeping too much, not trying to walk even with a walker, and falling MORE. Where are the caretakers at this place??? Why isn't someone helping him make this transition???? Someone said there is no good solution to assisted/independent/nursing home situations, and now I can see what she meant. So my sisters and I are planning (still) how to help/advocate for this new phase of Dad's life, going to speak with the activities director and the nurse to see how the place can facilitate his reversal because he's deteriorating. He's depressed, and inert. He's frail and complacent. he still gets a little head of steam going once in a while if he can't hear what we say ("WHAT??? WHAT??? WHAT???)  It makes me sad. And I am determined to give him affection even though he withheld it from me for most of my childhood. Stern, serious, very strict. That was Dad. We weren't allowed to talk back or question even the most ridiculous demands.

"I want you to move that pile of rocks over there." "All of them." "You missed some, do I have to take you by the hand and show you everything?" "Now I want you to move them back."

Years of that at varying degrees of insistence and frighteningly unreasonable anger. Terrified of him, I used to hide in my room when he'd get home from work. I'd hear my Mom come home, and that's when it would be safe to emerge, to creep upstairs and sit at the table, deep breath, and endure 45 minutes of him staring at me as I took every bite of food, commenting on how much how fast how efficiently I chewed, how soon I swallowed, to put my fork down between bites. Exhausted and certainly on the verge of an eating disorder, I'd go back downstairs and wish I were dead, or at least someone else. Not much affection or positive feedback, unless I initiated it, which I was scared to death to do.

Now I'm in control, I could be mean to him, I could get revenge, pay him back for the cruel discipline he shoved down our throats.

But I could never do that, could not cause someone else pain deliberately, as a payback or for any reason. He will only get my compassion, understanding and affection.

Because no matter what, he's family...and that's no little thing.