From House Wife To Film Maker

I received a phone call from my brother on Monday around 10.  Here’s the snap shot details:
To my surprise my father had gone home from the hospital on Saturday.
Sunday night he had fallen.  His leg had gone numb.
He laid on the bedroom floor for 15 minutes before my mother got to him (they live in a double wide trailer, not too much space there so why so long???) she couldn’t help him so he had to crawl into the bed on his own.  They were taking him to the doctor soon, they’re waiting for a friend to bring a walker.
I called their house.
My step-father answered.  He barely ever answers the phone.  But this time he does… when he’s in terrible condition.  Where my mother was was beyond me.
Through weakness and shallow breaths he told me his leg was in unbearable pain and numb.
He was crying.
All I could think was… it’s his heart.  He’s had two major surgeries in a week and a half and his body can’t take it…

I didn’t know if he was going to make it.
And I didn’t know what he thought since we hadn’t talked, to say we talked, since I !BLAM!ed them.
The !BLAM! wasn’t to slam them and drive their faces into the mud and cut my life off from them.  It was to get their attention.  It was for my healing.  It was for their healing.  It was to gain unity among us on some level at the very least.
But, unbelievably in the middle of everything I’m trying to do, these surgeries take place.
Any follow up call we needed to have got back burnered.
I have thought how they could have called me before the first surgery.  They had plenty of time.  They should have seen how important and necessary it was to call.
But they chose not to.
They did the same with the second surgery that was bumped earlier.
They could have sought to have “the follow up” call themselves.
To shoulder some responsibility instead of leaving me with “it” (the past) as always.

But they didn’t.

And there we were, in that extreme situation, unsure of what on earth was going to happen.
There was no way I was going to allow him to possibly go to his grave with some misconception about how I felt toward him.  That would be cruel.  Inhumane.  I wanted him to know that I sincerely had forgiven him at my aunts house, back when I had come home that 2 plus years ago. (click here for that post) That that had never changed just because of the phone call (the !BLAM!).  I let him know I loved him and I wanted everything to turn out fine.  I urged him to call an ambulance.  That it wasn’t a good idea for him to be walking to the car.  But he hates ambulances…
Then I moved to “hang up words.”
He needed to rest.
To conserve strength… since there wasn’t to be an ambulance.

But to my astonishment he began sobbing and pleading with me, “Let me call your mother so you can speak gently and caringly to her.  Everything in the past was my fault.  I ruined everything.  She only did what I told her to.”
To say the least I was stunned.  Completely taken aback.  What was this?  I didn’t want this conversation.  The timing was nothing less than terrible, he didn’t need this.   And this wasn’t how to handle any of it.  For the fist time I squared my shoulders and took charge, I wasn’t going to allow this to happen this way, to be forced into a situation where I was made to be wrong, where I had “done something that I needed to fix with my mother.”
As if it was all about her.
That it wasn’t about me.  What I needed.  What I was seeking.
I was “against” her… again.  “Hurting” her again.
For God’s sake NO.
I had done nothing wrong.  Frankly I was the only one trying to fix things.
Had always been the only one doing anything trying to fix things.
For the last several years I was the one trying to braid together what shreds there even were to go on, to create something…

“Dad, you never made mom do a thing.  She chose to do what she did.
“Yes, I did,” he gasped.
“Dad lis…”
“It’s all my fault.”
“Dad.  Listen to…
“She just did what I told…” he’s gasping for air…
“Dad listen…
“her to do, she did…”
“Dad.  Dad.  Stop.  Listen…You need to focus on yourself.  Don’t worry about any situation with mom.  I’ll take care of this in it’s time.  But this is not the time…”
“No Theresa, let me call her, get her on the phone.  Talk to her nicely…this is killing her…”

“Dad, you’re sick and in awful pain.  We’ll deal with all of this when you’re on your feet again.”
Like a man grasping at life he begged, “Promise me you’ll call her.  Promise me.  Call her tonight.  Make things right with your mother.”
“Now Dad,  just let me worry about that.  I don’t hate mom.  But certain things need to be addressed  And she certainly needs to own what is hers.”
“Oh good,” he said overly relieved, “I don’t want you to hate your mother.  It was all my…”  shallow gasping breaths…
“Dad, it wasn’t all your fault.  Mom did what she did.  On her own.”
“No she didn’t.”
“Yes, Dad, she did.  You couldn’t make her do a thing.  Especially when you were at work.  You didn’t call and make her beat me and scream at me for hours.”
With pressing urgency he said, “Yes I did.”
As gently as I could I said, “Oh dad, no you didn’t.  Don’t take responsibility for what she did.  You took responsibility for what was yours back at my aunts house.  I forgave you then.  Let her be responsible for her stuff…Look, let this go for now.  Really.  You need to rest.  Please.  Let’s stop this conversation so you can rest.”
“Okay.  Okay,” he gasps trying to sooth himself and as if delirium takes over, “the pain in my leg is terrible, I’ve got to go back to the doctors.  He’s going to figure out what the problem is…”
“Okay, Dad.  Now, listen you take it slow.  And be sure you let the doctors know everything that’s going on.  If you’re in pain insist they give you pain medicine.  I love you.  Goodbye.
We hung up.

Night, love ya,
Theresa Jane
-I think you’ve figure out already that this will take a few more posts… 
-!BLAM!ming births a journey… to true freedom . . .

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