It all started when I learned that my very, very healthy father (seriously…the body of a-40-year-old inside that of a 70-year-old man) failed a stress test and then a heart catheterization, revealing he needed immediate quadruple bypass surgery. Yes…open heart surgery. You would think that would make the walls close in, right? But it didn’t. I took that one right in the gut and then started planning how to get there. It required me to jump ship from a very important global meeting at work…right in the middle of the heavy activity…egos flying, masses of people from around the world trying to make their mark in the corporate headquarters…very entertaining, really. And, boom…I had to walk in and say, “I know this is the most important moment of the year for most of you at work. I’m sorry, but I have to leave now.” They all seemingly understood, shuffled me out and went about their business.

In two hours, I changed my plans 3 times due to the time of day and the fact that I had to get from Washington DC to Florida where my father’s surgery was taking place 1 ½ days later, but I also needed to stop off at home in Georgia to get more clothes and explain to my family why I would have to miss our planned family trip for the weekend…just a beloved Aunt’s 70th birthday – an Aunt from my husband’s side so my father’s health and well-being didn’t really affect her until now. So, off I went — rushing through DC traffic to the airport, headset on, calling travel agents and airlines to get me home and then into my car the next day for a 7 ½ hr drive to the hospital in Florida. Still no closing in walls…no look of terror hoping I could blow this popsicle stand and never look back. Just a very matter-of-fact planning opportunity.

I arrived home late that night, assuaged my 12 year old’s fears and frustrations that Grandpa was sick, that I’d be missing her drama performance at the end of the week and wouldn’t be taking an air travel adventure with her and the rest of the family later that weekend. I got up in the morning and explained it all to my very annoyed and clingy 7-year-old and then hopped in the car to head off on my long journey toward the hospital a state away. On the ride, I took conference calls for work and jumped off to manage the family calls. The last two hours of this exciting drive was a torrential downpour that required me to drive 40 mph without being able to see much through my windshield, even with wipers at full speed. Finally, I arrived. I made it to the room to find my father alone and waiting looking scared shitless. My tough father looked like he might weep like my 7-year-old son had done that morning. Still, no urge to run creeping up on me. I walked in confidently, gave him my “you’re strong and can do this, but you’ve got to make it all mind over matter” speech. And, waited as family and friends trotted in and kept time moving.

I got a kick out of the nurse…Debi…who kept speaking to my father in baby talk. It seems they had forgotten to feed him and she came in to apologize by saying things like “Did they forget your yummies, sweetheart. I sorwy.” I had a moment where I almost stood up and popped her. I held back but did feel a bit of awe at the fact that I was feeling no emotions at all except anger and frustration. Sadness, not yet. Fear, not really. A bit of love, but the most relevant feeling was a general pissy-ness. I chalked it up to travel exhaustion. And, when visiting hours were over, I went to dinner with my sister and my Dad’s wife and tried to laugh with them. I even showed them a series of You Tube videos of Bon Qui Qui on Mad TV to give us some common humor to get through the next day. It was tense and forced, but light-hearted…I’m sure you can imagine.

We got about 5 hours of restless sleep that night and returned by 6 a.m. to the hospital to see my father off to his surgery. At this point, his fear was palpable and I did feel some nerves myself but…still…no need to run and hide. We sent him off, had our coffee and tea, went out and made some calls and waited and waited. We took some visitors while waiting and got calls from the operating room along the way…his veins have been harvested…then, he’s on the bypass machine….much, much later…he’s back on his own heart…and then, 7 hours in…the doctor came out to tell us he did great. He’s in great shape and should recover really well. We breathed a sigh of relief. I ran to get us some lunch. The hospital food was nasty and I knew my Dad’s wife would like something different. I was trying to be supportive of her. After all, my Dad really seems to love her a lot.

Several more hours passed before we could see him. When we finally could, he still had a breathing tube and couldn’t talk to us but he made hand motions to let us know he was doing fine…thumbs up…charades for “what time is it?” and “my leg hurts the most.” We left for them to remove the breathing tube and returned 45 minutes later to feed him ice chips and hear his story. He was in decent spirits and had more color. There were tubes full of blood and other bodily fluids coming out of him everywhere and people in nearby rooms moaning, but we had a sense of relief, love and happiness. Still, no need for me to bolt…it wasn’t even on the horizon. He was tired. He asked to sleep. His wife wanted to stay even though we’d been told not to.

So…this is where I should say… his wife is lovely by most people’s accounts. She has been a recent addition to our family …in the past 10 years…she’s a bit of an “I will do anything for my man” petite little southern thing who I probably wouldn’t see eye-to-eye with in the real world, but for family visits 3-4 times a year and the fact that my Dad is content and happy and settled, I think she’s just fine. She’s pretty ditzy and gives way too much affection to him in public for my tastes…grosses me out a bit and makes for good, old-fashioned step-mother stories for me to share with friends. So, when he was lying there all tubed up and she kept trying to rub him, I was a bit over it. I suggested she stay on if she’d like and I’d go home, do some quick shopping and make us a light dinner that would keep until whenever she got there.

I think that’s when things turned. She looked at me as if I had spoken another language and said… “That won’t do. I don’t eat red meat.” I guess that would be an appropriate response if I had said I was going to make steak or a big meal, but I said light AND I’ve been a vegetarian for the better part of 20 years. So, it was a little off. I chalked it up to a stressful day, laughed it off and told her to come on when she could.

So, after the long, long day, my sister took a swim in their backyard pool and called friends, while I shopped and cooked a dinner. When, the wife arrived home, dinner was 10 minutes away from completion. She began downing wine and making odd phone calls. Before I knew it, dinner was ready and she was still wandering the house with the phone to her ear and wine bottle in hand…she managed to drain the entire thing in about 45 minutes on an empty stomach and stumble around after that. We asked twice if she’d like to eat and she waved us off. We ate and then she came out afterwards and decided to dig in. It was then, that my family — my husband and kids — had a problem on their trip to the Aunt’s birthday up north, and I began to get phone calls of need…their rental car wasn’t going to be there when their delayed flight arrived; they didn’t have a place to stay or know where to go. So, I got on the phone to fix it. When it was all said and done, I came out and sat where the wife was sitting…well kind of lolling…wine drunk and all. I vented about having to handle that after such a stressful day. She listened a bit but got up to half-ass clean the dishes and ended up not being able to focus long enough so that, a few hours later, I found the food I cooked sitting open on the counter congealing.

As it was coming up on 10 p.m. and we’d all had a long day, I went to find her to see if she had an idea of how she’d like to get to the hospital the next day…together, in shifts, early or late? I found her in my Dad’s typically fastidious office with papers spread all around – she had decided to tackle his expense report that evening — but I caught her in the act of pouring another glass of wine and playing solitaire on the computer. “Any plans for tomorrow?” I asked. “Want to go together in the morning or would you like to split it up?” She looked at me somewhat cross-eyed…kind of like the look after I suggested making some dinner earlier in the evening, but more drunk…and said, “I’ll get up and go in the morning.” “Great,” I responded. “If I’m not up, please wake me and I’ll go with you.” She laughed, drunkenly. “Oh…I’m not getting up early…I’ll wake when I wake. You’ll be up.” “Okay, then. See you in the morning,” I say, backing out of the room and really, really starting to feel just plain annoyed at the ridiculousness of this woman. I’m no prude…I had wine that evening too, but a reasonable two glasses and a full meal over about 4 hours. But, she was getting a bit out of hand.And, then, she stopped me. “Can you sit down please? I know this is a bad time. But I NEED to talk to you,” she said.

And it hit…those walls started closing around me. I knew what was coming. She wanted to discuss our relationship. And, for the first time in my entire life, I wanted to run from a situation. I mean, I felt like a trapped animal and wanted to weave and dodge and get out. I said, “Oh…I’m so tired. Can we talk another time?” But, I was directed to sit. And, in she dove. “Why don’t you like me?” Here’s the thing. You can’t pick your family right? She’s not a blood relative but she’s family. My Dad picked her. He loves her. She’s pretty benign, but I don’t really like her as a buddy, a friend, a pal. She’s my Dad’s wife who my kids love and my Dad loves and I get along with. And, I’m sure she senses that limitation. And, I do feel bad I can’t give her more, but I can’t. And, I am way too kind to tell her that in this moment…or any moment really…but especially this one. So…I stammer about how we get along fine and I do think she’s great and how my Dad loves her, and I try to get up about 3 times trying to leave and she doesn’t pick up on the cues. I eventually convince her of her position in the family and my respect for it and her need to be okay with that and that it’s all my fault because I’m not very emotive. I talk her off the ledge and I hate her for it and myself for it, and I’m exhausted and worried about my Dad and I’m all alone.

When I finally find my way back to my room, it hits. The desire to run…just take off…say, “So long suckers…get your own lunch and make your own dinner…work out your own transportation…decide what the right questions are for the doctor yourselves. I’m out of here.” I consider it long and hard while I look in the mirror like a crazy person, quietly laughing to myself and whispering, “I can’t believe what just happened.” But, I’m way too tired and I’m way too conscious of the unspoken role my Dad needs me to play…the sober, voice of reason. So, I sleep and get up and go to the hospital alone in the morning. I was there for the doctor’s rounds. I was there to watch my Dad act like a nut-job on morphine after a major, major surgery. I sat with him until his wife re-appeared (3 hours later) and then made an excuse as to why I needed to get away for a bit. I went and found lunch on my own, returned to the house for a nap and then back to the hospital to sit bedside. I met my mother for dinner later that night and returned home to ask the wife how the rest of the evening went, begged off a drink with her due to exhaustion but, really, if I’m being honest, out of fear. And, I repeated the same pattern the next day until it was time for me to drive the 7 ½ hours back to my home, my family…knowing my Dad was on the road to recovery and they would be okay in the odd little world they’ve built for themselves.

I still have a gnawing feeling though that I may never be able to return, may never be able to sit alone in a room with her again. I still want to run. But, she made it clear that I should return home now because she’ll need me there again in a few weeks. So, I’ll likely do that…come back and help her then.

What worries me is that I could see in her pleading eyes, that she’ll need me to like her then too…present her with more. I’ve always been pretty direct, pretty healthy in my relationships. But, all bets are off. I like this feeling of potentially ditching…like many people I know have done. I get it now. Sometimes, facing into the wind is just too hard and you’ll get knocked and tumbled and thrown to the side. So, maybe I’ll take one quick step across the road and just keep going.

Maybe…or maybe, I’ll show up in a few weeks and run errands, and cook dinner and keep my mouth shut. I think I know which one will win out, but the fantasy is nice, isn’t it? And, the stories of the crazies in this little family snapshot are my honest way of sharing one normal woman’s life…warts and all.

What their timid article about our friend FP should really say is: “Those suffering from food poisoning will frequently clutch their stomachs, beg for death and run unexpectedly towards any object that might serve as a receptacle for their projectile vomiting.”

It should continue on to say that people in the throes of poisoning can be quoted as saying “oh God…oh God… oh God… oh God…honey, it hurts … oh God… oh God…”

That would have made it much easier to diagnose, which is key in treatment. I mean, I could treat him for something else, like lice, but I’m not sure the desired effect would have been reached.

With regards to treatment, the article should list the following:

Things you should *not* do:
- Allow the barfer to consume liquids within 30 minutes of last explosive episode
- Give the barfer Emotrol, Pepto or Immodium

Things you should do:
- Call your health insurance nurse line after the second “episode”. Do not wait until five hours later when the sickling is finally ready to accept defeat against the unseen
- Take copious notes so you can mock the ill when they’re – un-ill.

Nothing says “love” and “healing” quite like getting a laugh out of your PFL’s misery…then sharing it on teh interwebz.

But you didn’t, and I didn’t expect it, which makes it all that much more delightful.

I can’t being to explain why I went for it after my girls already had – especially when they described what would happen. By no means am I a prude (exhibit a: skinny dipping with some of my other girls at The Hostel in the Forest), I do have some body issues and don’t typically prance around in a swimsuit let alone nude in front of perfect strangers.

But there I was. As the day I was born – plus or minus my extra bits – in the middle of the whirlpool/steam area, trying to catch the eye of one of the older women working the scrub tables before I completely chickened out. “Maybe it’s a sign. I shouldn’t do it. You can’t walk out now, you’re already here. C’mon, pull it together.” That inner monologue is bossy and sassy!

Two Russian women beat me to the punch, and I clutched the hand towel that was theoretically supposed to cover my nether bits a little tighter. I eked out my request and was ushered with a nod into the steam room for “two minute” by a woman in a black bra and granny panties: my scrubber.

Okay.

If she’s okay, I’m okay.

I’m OKAY.

I did my time in the blazing hot steam and was collected by my scrubber, quickly ushered via hand gestures to a half-walled off area with eight identical tables and told to lay down. “Face down?” I ask, she nods and slaps the table.

Oh, God. Don’t hurt me. (Someday, after lots of therapy, I’ll write about the most abrupt, jerky, slappy, pokey massage I’ve ever had a half an hour before.)

I’m doused with a bucket of warm water, then another. I’m reminded of jumping off a cliff in Jamaica and being told to keep my legs tightly together. Too late.

For the next thirty minutes she scrubs me with mitts and soap, nudging me to turn onto my side, lifting my arms over my head, nudging me when I needed to turn again. Scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing.

At some point after rolling onto my back I realize: I haven’t been cared for like this – physically – since I was a child. I haven’t had someone carefully cleansing me, washing me and renewing me. It occurs to me this would have been a perfect compliment to what Malinda did for me over the course of 5+ years, with once a week visits to her office. Boxes and boxes of Kleenex, and hugs, and painful recollections and purging.

This wasn’t some shi-shi spa salt scrub bullshit, this was the real deal. This was rough without being brutal, it allowed me to be vulnerable without being ashamed, and it allowed me to rejoice in someone else taking care of me in ways I (clearly) couldn’t take care of myself.

The charcoal sauna may have ridded my body of toxins and the massage may have loosened more up (note to self: drink a GALLON of water tonight with all that red wine) but the body scrub? Ridded me of so much more, for which I have no words.