~ Sing For The Laughter, Sing For The Tears ~ It’s been a year. A __________ [choose your own adventure adjective] year. Perhaps 2023 was magical? Surreal? Confusing? Harsh? Beautiful,… Read more »
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After I arrived home from my visit ‘home’, my dad went into the hospital.
It was long and it was ugly and he basically had a psychotic episode while he was there.
On the one hand, it’s good that the hospital was a VA hospital. Because they are trained in how to deal with these kinds of combative-crazy situations.
On the other hand, it’s not so good that the hospital was a VA hospital. Because they don’t DO anything about it. Like, y’know, provide psych treatment. Or diagnose any kind of mental health issue beyond “he’s a veteran.”
And now he’s home. (Meaning: he’s in my mother’s home.)
We had another Furnace EventTM recently, during the fixing of which my husband got out his heat gun1 and started pointing it at random supposed-to-be-warm and probably-lukewarm items around the house. The ‘heated’ items he tested included {1} the wood floor, {2} the ceramic plant pot that holds The Jolly Green Giant (a monstera plant that has quadrupled in size since I photo’ed my legs next to it in 2021), {3} the book I was reading at the time, and {4} my knee.
The fourth item — thought, by my spouse, to have the highest ‘hotness’ potential — was the coldest.
This, I informed him, was proof positive: Never mind the years of cold flashes and a completely absent libido (2023 was a no-sex year too; or should I say two?), this heat-seeking device makes it official: I am now [officially] frigid.
(I’m not freezing anymore though. The problem has been resolved, no “for the birds” business about it — it was the thermostat.)
In other news… I was *on* those frigid knees yesterday for 30 minutes. (Ouch! I’m not young anymore!)
But that is a story for another day.
(Don’t get your hopes up though. It’s not nearly as sexy as it sounds.)
TL;DR — My mom is doing well. My dad is not. Little sister with her little brood is dealing with life and the difficulties that come with it. I’m back home.
~
So my visit home was… Informative.
To start with, let’s look at the main takeaways: [1] Mom is doing well and my fears/concerns that some kind of drastic action may be necessary (i.e., moving back on a semi-permanent basis) have been alleviated; [2] I sincerely hope the end is coming soon for my dad (I don’t care how bad it sounds; he’s a mean bastard and has outlived his empathy allotment); [3] my sister and her kids need some help.
The term ‘heartstrings’ has always had two primary meanings to me.
One, it is the strings of the heart that get ‘plucked’ — in the way guitar strings do — in such a way that I start humming to a specific vibratory note. Sometimes melancholy, often sad, occasionally ‘played’ in order to make me/my-life sing a particular melody.
Two, it is the small ropes that bind — the hemp that twists against itself and tangles with each other — and tie me to something: a person, an obligation, a decision, a choice, an opportunity, a career. A place.
It is the second form of heartstrings that has been heavily on my mind lately, specifically in terms of ties to places. Ties to locales, to geography.
