#like bro there's less than 2 weeks left and I have an 8 page paper 2 presentations (one of them half an hour) 4 finals a regular exam

[binders-and-beanies]

people act like being a social work major is so easy but then they hear all the shit you have to do and they’re like I would kms

[of-another-broken-heart]

That was so fucking awful... 

And I get to do it every week for the rest of forever. Great. 

My Nana is diabetic and has heart disease. There might be some other conditions she’s got that I have not been made privy to - but those two, I know for sure. She is on a full page of medication. This is not an exaggeration. She has a complete lined paper filled, top to bottom, with her daily medication regimen. 

It would be a lot even for a fully able-bodied, neurotypical, mentally healthy person to manage. My Nana is not able-bodied, nor is her mental health or memory as great as it used to be. She used to be able to manage, though. Before her memory started getting a big sloppy. 

Now Pop-Pop is trying to shoulder all responsibility, while also blaming Nana for the medications she’s on, and being impossibly stubborn about any suggestions on how to better help or manage the situation. 

My one aunt is the only one who actually understands the full scope of what each medication does, what dosage Nana is supposed to take, and how often. There are a few (like Nana’s insulin) that are supposed to have fluctuating dosages based on Nana’s current blood sugar... except, Nana doesn’t always test her blood sugar. She just goes ahead and takes some mid-point standard insulin dosage, I guess. And she’s not supposed to do that. But she’s also lucky to remember to take it - and take it only once - with each meal. 

Basically they’re both struggling to be independent despite really, really needing better communication and teamwork. Nana feels, very understandably, trapped and stripped of a lot of her own value. Even when she was in better shape, she was somewhat house-bound. She never had a license, definitely can’t ride a bike any more, and couldn’t go very far on foot. Now, she’s not mobile. She’s on oxygen, with a literal plastic leash tethering her to the house. She can’t even manage most household chores any more, because the heat or moisture will mess with her breathing - and that’s assuming she could move or stand long enough to do it in the first place. 

So Pop-Pop is shouldering it all - which is honestly mostly reasonable. Nana took care of it all for over fifty fucking years by herself, PLUS raising four kids and running daycare from home while he was still working. They’re retired now, so it’s not like there’s some nine-to-five or house full of kids otherwise demanding his time on top of normal household routine chores. BUT he’s being such a whiny little shit about it - complaining about ~having~ to make the bed, ~having~ to do the laundry, ~having~ to vacuum, ~having~ to... cook! COOK!

Like... if you were single, you’re telling me you wouldn’t be doing any of that shit? You’d leave your bed a mess? You’d never wash your own damn clothes? You’d leave your floors full of tracked-in dirt, mud, hair, and whatever else?? You’d... never fucking feed yourself?? PLEASE!  

The toxicity of 50′s straight marriage is definitely a big factor in the unhappiness - and mutual emotional abuse, honestly - in their marriage. I can chalk up around 99.9999999% of Pop-Pop’s indignation to the manufactured narrative that “the wife does this shit, the husband sits on his ass at home!” You can’t tell them that, of course. Even Nana will agree when Pop-Pop says, “Yeah, well, things were different back then!!” Yes, Pop-Pop, I know... segregation was still a thing. I’m well aware of how “different” things were. 

All of that is a mess in its own right, right? Yeah. But is that all I get to deal with? LMAO OF COURSE NOT. 

So, when I locked in that I’d be going over every Friday, we decided on what was going to be for dinner and a few tasks we’d be tackling. Or, that I’d be tacking to the best of my ability while trying to keep them both from doing it themselves. Lil sis originally was going to tag along, and mom joked about showing up for dinner (Pop-Pop said he was going to set a big pot roast up with a bunch of veggies). So there was some vague “maybe two more people will join us for dinner” anxiety that Pop-Pop was struggling with. And me, too, honestly. 

So today, before I even managed to get out of bed, lil sis sent me a message (as I more or less expected) around 1 PM, saying she had homework to do instead of being able to tag along. Sure, okay. I didn’t fully believe that was the reason, but I wasn’t gonna stress myself over it. (She later hit mom up for money to go to the movies with her friends, so... yeah) 

I asked my bro if he wanted to come along, because he’d felt bad about missing Pop-Pop’s birthday visit for a friend thing that ended up falling through. But he was resting from a headache and decline. Alright. Fine. Not a big deal. 

I ended up getting there a bit late because 1: I slept like trash and didn’t get up in time to fully prepare myself, and 2: I blew six bucks at McD’s to get coffee and a quick lunch because... (see point 1 again). 

As soon as I walked in, Nana was busy making an apple pie. Which she wasn’t supposed to make. Despite professing it was a treat for Pop-Pop, it doesn’t fool anyone that she’s just as invested in having pie for herself. And it’s not like it was a from-scratch pie that she could control the syrups or sugars in - she used canned pie filling. 

She’s diabetic. She literally shouldn’t be having that crap because it can kill her. 

But, circling back to her struggle to feel purpose, and her desire to make her husband happy (and also feel happy, herself) she likes baking. She likes baked treats. “I’m gonna die anyway, at least let me have good food!” she’s said on more than one occasion. 

And I get it. The compromise ends up being small servings accompanied by some extra insulin. 

But that doesn’t work any more, either, because her memory is slipping. She used to self-manage the insulin amounts. Now, she sometimes forgets, or takes the wrong dose. And because she’s used to being - and still trying to be - somewhat self-sufficient, she doesn’t communicate if/when she’s having trouble remembering things, or when she does remember and takes a dose. 

THEN, because she’s on SO FUCKING MANY MEDICATIONS, the times she DOES communicate that she’s taken her medications... often causes Pop-Pop to fly off the handle, because he automatically jumps to the conclusion that she’s taken the wrong things at the wrong times and/or has screwed up her dosages. 

They don’t quite shout at each other regularly - but sometimes they do. And what they’ve gotten in the habit of lately, is calling each other “stupid” or “idiot.” Or calling themselves (mostly Nana, in this case) those things. Because she knows her memory is slipping, and she hates it and can’t do anything about it, and feels awful and like even more of a burden because of it. 

Right before I was fixing to set the table for dinner, they were spatting over the pie. Nana said something about “I tried to surprise you with a nice pie, and you don’t even appreciate that,” and Pop-Pop mis-heard “pie” as “party” and immediately jumped to the conclusion that “19 to 20 people” were going to be showing up. He huffed and puffed, and I thought he went to the bathroom - but it turned out he just fucking left. Left the house completely. Drove away. 

I had been setting the table, so Nana and I waited after I got everything out. Nana gave a shout to ask if he was okay, and got no answer, so I investigated. The bathroom was open, but the bedroom door seemed to be mostly closed. I let Nana know and suggested he might be getting changed? So we waited a bit more. And waited. Nana wondered if he’d gone to bed instead. I went to knock on the door and find out. No answer from the knock. The lights were out, so it was possible that he was in bed. But nope. The room was empty. Walking back to the dining table, I looked out front and finally realized Pop-Pop’s car was missing. 

So just Nana and I had dinner together. It was delicious, but hard to really enjoy, given the circumstances. Pop-Pop called in the middle of it, to check if Nana had taken her mealtime meds, to remind her that “You realize you chased me away, right?” and “Tell Kristin I’m not mad at her.” He said he’d be home around ten or something. 

I wanted to cry. 

Actually, that’s putting it lightly. I’d already been there for three hours and I was screaming on the inside. Desperate to leave, but unable to abandon them after I promised to help, and especially unwilling to leave Nana alone, when she’s stuck there by herself so much already. 

He came back around 8, when Nana and I were just about done with the evening’s dishes. He repeated that he wasn’t angry with me, then said some more nasty shit to Nana. At that point she took herself to bed - the only escape she really has, to be honest - and I stayed a small while longer with Pop-Pop so he could have some vent/social time, too. 

Mostly it was all the shit I already knew - just phrased differently. Nana’s medications were overwhelming to manage - but he phrased it like it was her fault for needing it all, her fault for getting old with him. Everything was ~his~ responsibility - except it’s not, it just seems that way because he’s too stubborn to accept any significant help, and too scared that he’ll be left in the dark about important things if/when he IS the only one around to help. 

I get it. 

I have no idea what will actually help them, because I sure the fuck don’t have the ability to implement the only real solutions I can come up with myself. And so much of the stress and drama and strife is basic fucking communication that they’re both screwing up on. 

I don’t know how I’m not bawling my ass off from the anxiety this whole deal caused me, personally. Probably full of too much anger to let it out. Too guilty to let it be about me for even a second. 

I’ll break down later, probably. 

And do it all again next week.