Where would you rank your stress level on that meter? Right now I'm thinkin' mine is between "stressed" and "anxiety" on the ol' mercury monitor. Ya see, I had a perfectly planned vacation for the holiday weekend for Uncle Jeffy, me and the boys. Gotta watch out for those perfect plans hey? We were gonna go to West Virginia so my 17 year old could tour our old alma mater, spend a couple of days in Mo'town to show our kids the sights where we used to party our asses off as wild, raucous college kids, then head out to a ski resort and ski and snowmobile for a couple of days. Sounded pretty awesome to me, especially since there was snow in the forecast and I gotta have my snow fix at least once a year.
So we drive 10 hours to Mo'town on Thursday, get settled in at the hotel, have a nice dinner, and then my Mom calls. If you've been a faithful reader of my blog, ya know the dysfunction goin' on with my parents. If not, you can get caught up Here. She tells me that my Dad is having emergency quadruple bypass surgery the next afternoon. Holy Fuck!!!! The day before I was informed he may need a pacemaker but nothing definite was scheduled. My mind goes into automatic pilot. I knew I needed to get to PA to see my Dad in case he doesn't survive the surgery. We decided as a family that Uncle Jeffy and the boys would continue on with the vacation as planned. Obviously I didn't sleep at all that night, got up at the crack of dawn, rented a car, and hauled ass to PA to get there in time so I could see my Dad before the surgery.
Although I don't like to make comparisons to that murderer, I felt like OJ Simpson back in the day when he did those Hertz commercials runnin' through the airport. I was runnin' through the parking lot of the hospital so damn fast hopin' I made it in time to tell my Dad one last time that I loved him before he went under the knife. He may be a compulsive gambler, dysfunctional as hell, and not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he's still my Dad. Totally outta breath I asked at the information desk about my Dad's surgery. He was still in his room. WHEW, I made it!!!! When I got to his room, I was informed his surgery was cancelled until Monday or Tuesday.
I asked my parental units why the surgery was cancelled, and they of course had no idea. My Dad didn't even know he was having surgery. This is the point where I literally thought the expression, "fuck my life" was never more appropriate. After discussions with nurses and physicians, I learned the surgery was cancelled because my Dad has a myriad of health issues, too lengthy to list here. Suffice it to say, his chances are not great. As I write this, his surgery is scheduled for Monday, the 21st, at 6:30am EST. Given the history of things so far this week, that could change in a skinny minute.
Good news is that although my Dad is facing the surgery of his life, he STILL insists on boxing his lottery number and buying powerball tickets. When I told him he had more important things to worry about, he gave me his standard line he's been telling me my entire life, "God damn it Deb, somebody's gotta win and it might as well be a poor son of a bitch like me". Keep the dream alive Dad, keep the dream alive!!
Please forgive me if I'm a bad blogging friend for awhile as I'm the only one parenting two dysfunctional parents, while also trying to hold together a family of my own. Fair warning to all within the tri-state area: If my personal stress meter goes above the "anxiety" level, run for cover. I've been in the red zone before and it ain't a purty site. I hear I'm some sort of urban legend in these here parts.
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