phoneybologna-blog1

[phoneybologna-blog1]

It’s all happening... and it’s all bullshit.

I didn’t want to make a Tumblr blog. I never wanted to make one. But writing another notepad document feels inconsequential. The sign up process was fast and now I can just blow my brains out into this fucking text post and hopefully get it to stop whirring like a god damned cranial tornado. It’s 3:57 AM on June 1st, 2017. I’m sitting in the powered leather recliner that my papa never wanted. It’s a piece of shit compared to his decades old blue Lazy Boy chair as far as he’s concerned. On any other day, I’m sure this would be a relaxing place to be but not to-fucking-night. Absolutely not. Ema - our affectionate nickname for my grandmother - was in the emergency room tonight. My parents were calling me for hours before I got to a phone to answer them. She was with her caretaker, Kay, in the hospital when they called. She had gone out to the yard to pick the peaches off her tree. She’s becoming senile. She’s losing it. She became obsessed with those god damned peaches. They weren’t even ripe yet. And now, because of that fucking fruit, her rib is broken. She cries out in pain any time she moves. She can’t dress herself, she can barely walk, she can barely fucking breathe. Those last two things are the worst parts of this situation too. She needs to walk. She needs to breathe. But I’m afraid she’s going to be too stubborn to do what she needs to do to be healthy again or, worse yet, she’ll just give up. You see, Papa, the one who hates this chair I’m in, he has congestive heart failure. His life is on a very short clock and every moment that passes for him is the last of it’s kind. Ema and Papa will have been married for 65 years this June. It will be the twelfth -- it will be a Monday. Papa will be 85 years old this year, Ema will be 87. The love between them is the only love they’ve ever known. I’m so afraid that Ema is simply just going to say “Fuck it.” and die with the man she loves. The guy is a Jehovah’s Witness, and Ema is a protestant which, even if you’re not from the south, you could see how it would cause tension. But I know that it hasn’t changed their underlying love for each other in the slightest. When Athena and I drove across town to get ready to help Ema get to her bed, we pulled up to find Papa, sitting in the front yard, wide awake and worried as hell. To me, this is big. Ema and Papa have a strict schedule they keep. Breakfast at 7:30 AM, dinner at 11:30 AM, and supper at 5:30 PM and bed at 7:00 PM. Every night, for as long as I’ve known them. But there he sat, an 87-year old man, 7 hours past his bed time, waiting on his wife to return from the hospital. When Athena and I sat down with him, I had sort of expected, or at least resigned myself to the coming silence. My Papa is the strong, silent type. Lot’s of “Mhm’s” and “Yep’s” -- but it was different tonight. Tonight he was all strong, no silent. He taught me something about what it means to be a man, in that short conversation we had while we waited. You see, I had been silent during the whole 20 minute drive over here. I clinched my fists and drove 10 miles over the speed limit and prepared myself for the agony that was coming. But, if I follow the inadvertent teachings of Papa, I’d see that’s really not the best way to handle these sorts of things. We reminisced. We talked about my brother and his business and his parents and grand parents and most importantly, I think, we had a laugh together. Now I’m not sure that I can always agree with southern folks on everything they say and do and that’s fine, but now I can certainly say that I know not to judge ones wisdom based on their upbringing. Papa knew that pain was coming too. He knew he’d have to see Ema hold back tears as pain from her broken rib rips her apart inside. He knows this is probably how its going to be for her for quite a while -- rib injuries take fucking forever to heal. He knows that his time is limited, he’s not afraid, and he laughs in spite of it. That’s how I should have handled this. That’s how I should be doing it now. I suppose, at the very least, I acknowledged that piece of wisdom -- to laugh despite inevitable pain but, given the circumstances, and the fact that it’s 4:23 AM, I guess I’ll just start a blog. It’s all bullshit, anyways.