Unconfirmed Bachelorette

I received a Facebook message from a friend of Mack’s today. Well, she sent it Wednesday, but I don’t get on Facebook much these days. It’s too much of a time suck. I’d rather be reading your blogs. But today the Facebook notifications popped up on my iPad, so I figured I’d see what I’d missed. If anything. Here’s what she wrote:

Hey [Unconfirmed Bachelorette] – [Mack] wanted me to let you know he just got out of the hospital after having a triple bypass this weekend. Hope all is well with you!

I was on my way out the door for a walk when I read it. It seemed like pretty good timing: I could get outside, get some fresh air, and consider how I felt about the news. But after an hour of pounding the pavement in the heat, I still wasn’t sure.

Thoughts I had:

• Why did he think I needed to know this?
• Do I need to know this?
• Thank god I broke up with  him.
• Would I have stayed out of guilt? Out of obligation?
• Thank god I broke up with him.
• I’m glad he’s OK.
• Huh. What do you know. I’m glad he’s OK.
• What if he had died?
• I think I’d be glad the pedophile died.
• I’m glad he’s OK.
• Thank god he didn’t have a heart attack when I took him hiking in Canada.
• Maybe he’ll get more blood flow to his cock, now.
• Maybe he’ll quit being such an asshole.
• Nah. He’ll keep being an asshole. He didn’t stop when he had a heart attack a few years back.
• Lucky for him we broke up. Otherwise Corinne and I would have been at the hospital together. Asshole.
• Why did he think I needed this information? What am I supposed to do with it? What does he want from me?
• A triple bypass. I wonder if he had another heart attack.
• What if I had married him? What if he turned into an invalid and I was married to an asshole invalid?
• Maybe he’ll stop drinking so much.
• I guess I’m not completely awful since I’m glad he’s OK.
• If he wasn’t such an angry asshole, he’d be healthier.
• My blood pressure was 109/73 when I went to the doctor this week. He asked me if I’d had any more bladder infections. “Not since I got rid of the asshole,” I said. Doctor writing notes in my chart: “I’ll clean it up a bit: No more bladder infections since partner out of the picture.”
• He must have been cheating on me. I’m an idiot to think otherwise.
• I wonder how he’ll pay for the medical care.
• Poor bastard.
• You know, there were some good times. It’s a shame he’s such an asshole.
• Don’t go getting all weak.
• Keep walking. Away.

At bottom, when I peek beneath my initial reaction, I feel sad. Sad he wasn’t who I thought he was. Sad he’s not the kind of man I want to be there for when he’s sick. Sad second chances are generally illusory. If I look beneath the hardness, I can find that place in my heart that still holds a piece of him. And I’m glad he’s OK.

I spoke with my mother recently. Each time I speak with her, she tells me that my father’s gotten worse. My father, who will be 84 this year, no longer knows how to put on his pants. My mother helps him dress. Helps him with his zipper. Puts on his shoes. Shows him how to push “talk” on his phone when I call. Reminds him to take his pills. Pills that don’t seem to be helping with his failing mind. A mind that once was brilliant.

My father once was a master chess player. He read Russian literature. He could fix anything.

Each morning, my mother puts the pills my father is to take in a little bowl on the kitchen counter. She reminds him many times to go into the kitchen and take them. She also puts the cat’s treats in a little bowl on the kitchen counter. Recently, instead of taking his pills, he ate the cat’s treats. When my mother told me this story, my father was on the extension. He laughed and said the cat’s treats were pretty good. So although his mind is failing, he still has his sense of humor.

My father goes to work every Monday through Friday at the business he built. He sits in his office with a space heater, and naps in his chair. In the evenings, at home, he naps in his chair with a heated throw I gave him for Christmas this past year. This is pretty much the extent of his days.

I wonder what it’s like for my dad. Does he know he is deteriorating? Does he know he’s no longer the brilliant engineer he once was? Does he feel frustrated when he can’t make the phone work? Is he frightened when I tell him he’s trying to put on my mother’s shoes?

So far, he still knows who I am. He still knows his house is his home. He still argues with my mother as he’s always done. He’s looking forward to his summer vacation in Ontario. He loves his cat.

I dedicate this 100th post to my father.

Today’s post is about natural antidepressants. Here’s on of my favorites:

Cat Digging My Shoes

I think psychiatrists should hand out kittens, along with the drugs. (While this is not my cat, those are my shoes.)

Next is nature therapy. I took these shots at a park not ten minutes from where I live. When you can walk, trail run, or ride your bike here, who needs a gym? I’m a firm believer that outdoor exercise is way better for mental health than slogging away on a treadmill. You get your vitamin D, a little nature (yesterday I saw a gorgeous deer), and lots of fresh air. The last shot is of my favorite tree in the park.

But don’t take my word for it. Here’s a link to a scientific study showing that outdoor exercise is better for you than indoor exercise. http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2011/02/110204130607.htm

Also, these two types of therapy don’t make your hair fall out. No more Abilify for me! (But I am still on the Wellbutrin and Viibryd. For now.)

All weekend I’ve been struggling with this post. I have been reading posts of others and scouring the news (TomKat split up? Oh no!), and still, I feel uninspired. I’m trying to decide whether that’s a good thing. Usually when I post it’s because something or someone has gotten under my skin. But right now, unlike Gilbert Grape, there’s nothing eating me.

I’ve written my way to, and through, a breakup. I’ve written enough (for now?) about predators and pedophilia and alcoholism. I’ve grown weary of all these weighty subjects.

I need some levity.

And so, I give you (and me) this: