This Life is too Hard

I hate to be a proverbial belly-acher, but seriously? How much is one person supposed to take before you say enough and end it? Even if you want to live, the roadblocks keep coming at all angles. And “living” is a luxury.

Where I am now, a roof, toilet and kitchen, is a home I am humbly thankful for, even though all my things from one storage unit is under traps on the dirt. Everything. And I can’t get to it because of instability and confusion and lack of mental reasoning to fully comprehend what is in my heart and mind, because I become too upset and I just can’t take it. And no one underatands that.

My Facebook friends don’t get that. I had a stroke. Awww. She’ll get better with time. I had a vascular lucanar stroke at 51. 1/5th of the population has that at 65. Sixty-five. There are no percentages for 51 year olds other than within that 1/5th. Is it 1%? 0.5%? 5%? I can’t find any numbers due to it’s rarity and not needing to know, most likely.

How can I get people to see there is an issue when I can’t even explain it to them? When I don’t know myself.

And how can I explain that moving things that were inside the house are now under a tarp on the dirt and I should be fine with that because I didn’t sell it or give it away? I can get used to having nothing because I will soon enough.

I’m even fearful of doing laundry because my friend has “smell” issues like Tide. I’m trying, but being accommodating is so damn hard when I don’t have the brain I once did.

And now she wants to insure I find housing by December 1st. There is nothing in Livermore, especially Section 8 and I have no income. Homelessness is a very real and serious problem in the Bay Area, especially for someone who can’t work and is waiting on Social Security.

I don’t know what to do. Any suggestions? Please don’t say Salvation Army or St. Vincent’s or some other Christain Charity. There is help for veterans, not civilians who have suffered a life changing disability and doesn’t know where to turn.

If you can, or if you know anyone who may help, please refer them to http://www.GoFundMe.com/Life4V

Or, if you know a reporter or journalists or someone connected to media, please pass along my story. I need all the help I can get. Because someone crying wolf doesn’t get tje time of day, let alone a reply.

Homeless and Hopeless

I don’t enjoy my life. I don’t have anything to look forward to, except doctor appointments and diagnosis. That’s a double edged sword. Diagnosis for something that won’t get better. Or restore me to my former self.

Though I have shelter, it’s not mine. My home. And though I have some of my things here, now on pallets with tarp on dirt, it isn’t the bulk of my stuff still in storage and will be lost too quickly for lack of payment.

Since I can’t work and earn money, former 6-digit income worker who can’t work – ironic – I don’t have any income to pay for my storage units. Homeless losing the bulk of everything and I didn’t do “this” intentionally. It’s a waiting game for Social Security and I didn’t have medical care – other than prescriptions to keep my diabetes and hypertension and cholesterol under control with no management or explanation and I can’t eat like a normal person BECAUSE of a medical condition caused by the stroke, but it’s an eating disorder that needs pyschiatric guidance. Bullshit.

They brought on my suffering due to ignorance and apathy. And if I had care, or even an explanation of the type of stroke I had, it would be easier to accept and adjust to. But, I’m alone with no close family, so tough luck. Too bad, so sad. Loser.

Should I think any other way? Why? I am dealing with this alone and the few who do deal with me don’t get what I am going through. Every hiccup is a major road block, a landslide, and I have to wade through it and not drown or sink to the depths. And succumb to death, which would be so much easier.

I went to a resource provider for Alameda County, and she gave me a list of meetings I could go to, to train you about renting a home and all that it entails. Goody. What I did for 30 years. It’s depressing and frustrating and so much to handle – alone. Nothing is easy anymore. It’s all so difficult and more just piles on every day.

I need help. I need someone with answers, not more questions.

gofundme.com/Life4V

I am Disabled and I Have Little Hope

I’m 53.

I had a Lacunar Stroke 11/29/16.

No doctor cared for my medical issues for 19 months. No one. I was even told I didn’t have “symptoms” and I wouldn’t be referred because the doctors didn’t have time for patients who weren’t truly sick.

When I said I couldn’t eat, I was told I needed a Psychiatrist for my eating disorder , even though I choked on my own spit, would reguritate when trying to eat, had no hunger, thrist, or produced saliva sufficiently. My speech therapist recommended a barium test, which he scoffed at and informed me that no speech therapist is trained to practice medicine, and it was an eating disorder.

Uh-huh.

And first time stroke patients don’t have Pseudo-Bulbur Affect. Yeah right. I need a physciatrist because I’m crazy? I’ll believe you. You were a geriatric doctor for years and you should know? I’ll pass on your “knowledge” you dumb fuck.

An actual neurologist said I had a “minor stroke”. I needed to see a physciatrist for my depression. First time in my entire life I walked out on a “doctor” when she told me that.

I was physically restrained by police and bound to a gurney when a Nurse Practitioner accused me of assaulting her. I have PTSD after that quaint encounter and visiting Psychiatric ER and being told I was grandiose and delusional.

I now have medical coverage that treats me like a human – not a number and a file and nothing is wrong. I have Contra Costa Health Plan to “thank” for nearly 2 years of hell. I now have coverage from Alameda Alliance. I had to “move” to Alameda County, but I’m homeless so I just had to find a home to sleep at. I have an old friend who gave me a spare bed and safety. Better than being raped or murdered in my car.

I do research when I don’t know something. I have done more research and came across this:

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Binswanger%27s_disease

Binswanger’s Disease. Similair to Alzheimer’s but can be caused by a type of stroke. Vascular Dementia. I see a doctor on November 1st at Neurovascular Services of UCSF. I am hoping that I don’t have Binswanger’s, but I am still dreading the outcome. At least I will know. Finally. But it’s me and I get weird stuff no one diagnoses for years, so it’s probably true.

Onset is usually between 54-65. I was 51 when I had the stroke, but there is evidence I had an infarct, and I know when. It was in the Spring of 2014 when I was caring for my adopted sociopathic narcisstic dementia ridden mother and she had already thrown out my meds and I had to go to Emergency, and they did no tests to find out what was wrong. I just had a BP of 3xx/17x. They released me when my BP was normal and I got no meds or a followup with a doctor. I was a few months from 50 then.

Figures. They refused to put in writing that “Mom” had demntia, even though it was clearly noted in her medical file. I know. I saw it. They mishandled her care until she died in May 2015.

That was in Southern California. I returned to the Bay Area after my SoCal sojourn and moved in with a friend who siad I could stay with them until I found a job and a new home, since I had to sell Mom’s, because that crazy bitch tore up her living will and the grant deed adding me to the house. She was bat-shit crazy and it ruined my life more than once. And since I paid the bulk of the mortgage, and it was a 2nd mortgage, I technically had been paying on that house for 8 years.

But, I came back here with a pittance of an inheritance to start my life again. She got me fired from my job, though they called it a layoff due to plant closure, but they stayed open for another 2 years, and I had been there for 5 years and knew where the proverbial bodies were buried.

I couldn’t work and take care of Mom. She always made everything about her. Kinda like Trump. Full-time chaos. Grrrr.

I came home and within 2 months I had the stroke. Most of my belongings had to be stored, including what I had to move to storage when my “friend” said they were moving and I had to go because I was ruining their happiness. You know what? They’re still there! Jerks.

I got no help from Contra Costa in finding a home. I’m running into the same problem with Livermore Housing Authority, but I have organizations to call. Whatever is wrong with me, it makes daily functions hard to figure out. I get overwhelmed and need to sleep. Or pass out. I don’t “decide”. It just happens.

I have filed for Social Security and am waiting for a hearing, as I have been denied, but I can’t blame them. There is no patient history other than an ER visit and hospitalization. That’s pretty much it, other than tons of prescriptions for things I did not have. Not enough to give me early SSI.

So I have a GoFundMe campaign. There is a reason for that. I am broke. I have food stamps (which Contra Costa screwed up this month) and I have General Assistance I have to pay back. $192 and $300 for each. At least I get GA through Alameda. CC said if I had $50 in the bank, I didn’t qualify. I had to find a job. Yeah right. I can’t do 3rd grade math and I was a finance analyst/assitant controller amd FX was one of my speciaties, but I’ll find work. If I could walk and stand up without tipping, or become so confused if I hear two things at once and I forget what I was doing, but I’ll figure out some mundane task to be paid minimum wage if an employer wants a fall risk on their payroll.

You need money to live, especailly if you’re a hypertensive diabetic with pernicious anemia and retinopathy. I take 9 medications by mouth daily. I take an insulin injection once weekly (better than twice a day just 1 month ago) and I take an injection once a month for Pernicious Anemia. I take blood sugar tests 2-3 times a day and my BP reguarly. That’s a lot to keep track of, but I manage. Everything sits within view and I set up my meds on a weekly basis, morning and evening. I have OCD, which comes in handy now.

I have carpal tunnel and a doctot has recommended surgery. My glasses prescription is 6 years old and my eyes have changed and not just because retinopathy. I drive a 1998 Oldsmobile Cutlass that my Dad bought before he died and it needs maintenance and wiper blades. I’ve got a Dell laptop from 2008 and it needs some time at Best Buy for worm removal and driver restoration.  I can’t use my Tower because no currently paid virus protection.  And my AAA Road Service has lapsed for non-payment. I stopped paying my credit card (just 1 – in case of emegency) months ago.

The GoFundMe is to provide for the cost of living until SSI comes through, hopefully soon. A friends’ sister was recently approved and that took 3 years. I’m a year and half in and had a lousy lawyer for the first 9 months.

My main storage unit is at Towncentre Self Storage in Brentwood and they won’t take partial payment per the district manager because it screws up their lien process. I am behind and the site manager has been told she can’t take a partial payment.

I am getting screwed out of my belongings – my life – because the District Manager is doing her job. Yes, they know about my situation. Yes, the site manager has compassion, but it’s still a businesa of real estate and that real estate has a price that needs payment.

Could I pay them $300? No. I need to pay them $660. I might be able to get $600, but I won’t be paying my car insurance, gas for that car or cell bill this month. $660, or she can’t take it.

My other unit is paid until November 29th. The rest of it is under a tarp on the patio where I am staying.

I need a place to live that has my things and not in storage. I purged everything I could when I packed Mom’s house. Gave away all I could. Even had a garage sale and listed on Criagslist. I lived in the backwater of Riverside County and they are CHEAP! 7′ aliminum ladder, months old that cost $70 at Home Depot, a little shit got it for $10 and it was SO EXPENSIVE. I sold it to him just to get rid of it, and he was pissed because I ripped him off.

Sure I did. That’s what privileged white people do that live in retirement communities. I hated it when Mom pulled “But I’m not from here, I don’t speak your language” crap. They know. They just assume you’re stupid or racist. I’m neither. I just hate that “I’m foreign, feel sorry for me” bullshit.

Think I don’t know? If you had any idea how many times I’ve told people I was born here and they don’t believe me – because of my name – and compliment me on my “good English”, I’m surprised I’m still free , because some folks need the stupid smacked off their smug mugs.

I’ve tried going to the press/media but I guess some one crying wolf isn’t sympathetic, even if it is real. I’ve lost my ability to work, to enjoy hikes, to drive to a nice area to walk away my worries for a few houra in nature, to sit and knit or do needlework or needlepoint, even to read for an hour or two, without my chaosed mind refusing to cooperate. I need some peace and that requires money. If I have to think about that, it becomes an obsession and I can’t sleep until I pass out, which for me varies amd depends if I have eaten well or just enough. If it’s just enough (1 meal a day and hopefully not Ramen), I can go 2-3 days without restful sleep, and my brain can’t take that.

Please go to my Campaign gofundme.com/Life4V and donate. I need help. I want to Live for however long I have and with my memories and savored remembrances of a life well lived.

Why We Need to Vote in Every Election

Your vote counts every time. That’s what my father taught me even before he became an official citizen.

Dad served in WWII for the Allies and was granted permanent residence here in the U.S. for that service. He was processed through Ellis Island. He worked Merchant Marines for years and finally took the “green card” benefit and brought his wife her in 1963. They bought a home in Long Beach, California, and in September 1963 adopted me. And they gave me a sadistic first name which is beautiful in their Native Norway, but not so great here. I started using the phonetic spelling which has worked just fine for 30 years. Venka is my name. They didn’t approve, but now their dead, so I’m technically free from criticism.

Except for those narrow minded bigots who tell me to “go home”. I am home. You leave, you racist fuck.

Dad took the Citizen protocol and was granted Citizenship in 1976. He was very proud. So was I. Dad and I were the same, as far as paper work was concerned. My narcisstic sociopathic mother remained a Resident Alien for the rest of her life. That was a problem for me, especially at the end of her life when she developed dementia. The trifecta of evil as far as she was concerned.

I’ve been a good citizen. Paid my taxes. Voted in each election. Held good jobs with a good income. It does nothing for me now that I have neurological brain damage caused by a Lucanar Stroke and can’t even do 3rd Grade Math. Foreign Exchange was one of my specialties. Numbers cause confusion and I transpose them. Forget about adding without a calculator.

That’s a small problem, if you neglect to add in the issue of lack of medical care.

I have Medi-Cal, a state funded program often referred to as MediCaid. I received my insurance through the Obama-care expansion. Yeah, the one the Republicans are trying to get rid of.

Those same Republicans are now going after Social Security and Medicare because those are “Entitlements”. Are they really? FICA was taken out of every check for 35 years. Medicare has been deducted as well – by the Government. So is your pay, Mitch McConnell.

FICA stands for Federal Insurance Contribution Act and it’s the first thing you Republicans go after when you’ve blown through the budget AGAIN and are looking at a deficit. FICA is Social Security and you think us dumb sheep don’t know that? Wrong. You’re stealing from us again and it’s not an Entitlement if we have to PAY FOR IT.

Dad and I went and voted together when I turned 18 and every election thereafter until I moved to Northern California, but we talked about Propositions and Candidates and Measures. He was always very interested and read up on each person or item. He approached voting as if it changed his life, and it did. Each candidate, measure and proposal had an impact on his life. Just as it does to me now.

Did I vote for Trump. No. Neither did 3 million people, but he is still President, and look how our country is? Divisive and uncaring and more racially charged than we’ve seen in 50 years. And if Muellar completes a shopping list of indictments (he has) against a lot of people who worked for Trump, but Trump’s direct involvement to the stupidity of the populace to be taken in by a con man, a shyster, a fake and a fraud who just wants to make a big name for himself while he gets richer – oh well. We screwed up? We should have done better?

The system is so broken and we have proof staring at us everyday. All the old white male senators. How many are in their 40’s? How many aren’t rich from being a Senator and voting on issues that make them rich? How many are farmers that don’t have millions of acres and get agricultural aid? How many don’t have stocks in companies they don’t support personally when blocking Big Pharma?

I give you a list of The Rich to nearly debters. Darrell Issa Rep. of the San Diego area is wealthiest. Figures. He’s in that Republican Bastion of Southern California.

https://www.rollcall.com/news/politics/every-member-congress-wealth-one-chart

Facts matter. Granted, not last weeks paycheck, but still.

Congress should be term limited, as should the Supreme Court. Serving until you die in the chair is ridiculous and pety. I love RBG, don’t die on me, but she deserves to be around family and grandchildren, not watching Kavanaugh having teenage agnst and failing to act like a Supreme Court Justice.

The gender ratio is 50/50, yet is our political representation 50/50? We are 63% white, 16% latino and 12% black. Who represents us?

https://www.infoplease.com/us/race-population/population-united-states-race-and-hispaniclatino-origin-census-2000-and-2010

https://www-pewresearch-org.cdn.ampproject.org/v/www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2017/01/24/115th-congress-sets-new-high-for-racial-ethnic-diversity/?amp_js_v=a2&_gsa=1&=1&usqp=mq331AQCCAE%3D#referrer=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.google.com&_tf=From%20%251%24s&ampshare=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.pewresearch.org%2Ffact-tank%2F2017%2F01%2F24%2F115th-congress-sets-new-high-for-racial-ethnic-diversity%2F

Take a look at the makeup of our politicians. How many claim some ethnic background to justify his right to run? What about Pocahontas? Or should I say Sen. Elisabeth Warren who the President ridicules in front of Navajo Code Talkers because she’s white. She does have ancestry, but it ain’t enough for some, so she shouldn’t talk about it?

My adoptive parents were immigrants that Trump likes. Norwegian People. White. Not from a shithole country. Dad wouldn’t have voted for him. Dad would have seen the Hollywood Star for what he was – in it for him and his pockets. Mom, had she been a citizen and could vote, would have voted for him because they shared the same thinking and beliefs. He would have been wonderful after that Obama who almost ruined us.

Mom and Dad never discussed politics. That was a conversation between he and I. He said to me once, when I asked, why me and not Mom? “You’re intelligent, consider the pro’s and con’s, and make a decision on what will improve your life. Mom doesn’t. Looks and money are the important issues.”

They didn’t discuss weighty matters much. It bottered Mom and she would get upset and have a tantrum and fail in the bedroom until Dad (or I) said sorry. We’d stop talking now. Happy? Back to Jeopardy or Wheel.of Fortune?

God the melodrama with that woman. And the grey matter committing sepuka.

We have to Vote. Each and every one us.

Too much depends on it.

How Life bit me in the Ass and it Won

This post won’t be pretty or “polite”. There will be curse words and the truth.

You have been warned. Sorry/Not Sorry. I’ll spare last names, except two – those of my family. And one other because she is a worthless Bitch.

If I repeat myself ^^^^

You should be aware I am a Scandinavian Socialist and a Democrat. And if you don’t know what that is, READ. We don’t read enough about other countries and other people. The life we are now subjected to, not America but Trumplandia, is sick, disgraceful and circling the drain with the shit the GOP (Grand Old Prick’s party) has colluded to make real and oppress every American who isn’t rich enough to pay them off. Gerrymandering is one guaranteed way to keep poor and non-rich-whites and anyone of color very, very quiet. That is, if they can’t just get rid of them or kill them. God forbid anyone respectfully kneels during our National Anthem when sung at a sporting event.

What do soldiers do when they come across a  grave of a comrade in arms? They kneel. How unpatriotic, if you believe the bone-spur-draft-dodger-in-Chief. He likes heroes that aren’t captured, after all. Anyone else who doesn’t think just like him is a son-of-a-bitch. Or has a  low IQ.

God bless John McCain, a war hero that served and gave his Being to this country. Thank you, Sir, for your complete and untiring service. You are a human being more people should be like.

Life has been a bitch,  but I tried to do the right thing for everyone else except me. That was disastrous.

If a Jorgensen reads this – fuck you all for ignoring everything and staying in your self-righteous cocoon. If you are an Anderson – I am so sorry. Dad and I had our own hell to deal with and thankfully you were excluded from most of it. Except Karsten. I am so sorry for everything. I didn’t know, damn them all for lying. Especially, that self-righteous bitch who married your father. I know he regretted what he did. How he raised me was testament to that. All the things I learned that he wanted to teach you. Even soccer.  I became the person I am because of him. Gunn had nothing to do with it, If anything, I wanted to be the exact opposite, or a good and decent human being.

But let’s start from today and work our way backwards. That’s so fun. The culmination of my end. Some stuff left out…because length of post.

I had a stroke an, anoxic brain injury that killed part of my brain. If I had served in Iraq, I would be considered a Wounded Warrior. No, I am just a silly civilian who had a medical problem. Screw her. There are people with worse, REAL problems. But, I can type so I’m normal! HA! Not anywhere close to who I used to be. At this point, I have no idea if I ever will be again.

I had no actual medical care for my stroke, my brain injury, for 19 months. Why? Assholes were “taking care” of me. Medical doctors who didn’t do their jobs, but prescribed pharmaceuticals without followup. I had “symptoms”, but I wasn’t referred to specialists because I had to get over them. See a shrink for an eating disorder. No referral for that. Can’t swallow? Eating disorder. No hunger or thirst since the stroke? Eating disorder. Throw up or regurgitate while eating? Eating Disorder. Persistent nerve pain? Here’s a pill. Difficulty sleeping? Here’s a pill. Excruciating cramping of toes and calves? Here’s a pill. One of them shouldn’t be given to those with history of stroke? Give it to her anyway. A Barium test the speech therapist recommended? She’s not a doctor. What does she know? More than he did when I was tested because another doctor believed Jess and it showed a Hiatal hernia and Schatzi ring (again – look it up – I had to).

Trying to see a GI specialist who only took new patients on Friday mornings and in Martinez, when I was in Alameda and had to deal with the morning commute. Sorry if you’re late. Can you come in again in two weeks at the same time? Sure. Maybe it’ll only take an hour and a half instead of the 40 minutes during the day after the commute. At least less than two and a half hours if there isn’t another truck crash on the 580 and a vehicle crash on the 680 and lookee-loo’s who are as slow as fuck.

Another accident and bad traffic. Missed another appointment,

I am scared to drive in traffic now. The Road Warrior who put 100,000’s of miles on cars, driving all over the Western US, but way too much on the 5 between SFO and LA, is scared to drive because I don’t want to hit anyone or be in the way. I miss my Beast. She was a good truck. I can hear TAPs in my head. It’s a comfort.

I had to donate the Montero to charity in January past this year. New engine, but fucked up carburetor that bleed gas and I had no spare money to fix her. Couldn’t pass SMOG.  And my off-roading days are over as far as I can tell. I miss that shift and drift quality in that a bread-box of a Surfer Jeep. 30 years we were together. Oh well. Everything comes to an end eventually. Hopefully not me. Not now.

That day in January I waved  goodbye to her – it was two days after I saw Nurse Practitioner Berg. Bitch. On that Wednesday, we had an appointment so I could get refills for meds (the one’s that weren’t refilled and were out since before Christmas and her vacation when no one did anything while she was “out” or unavailable) and referrals to therapy and neurology and whatever else I needed because I couldn’t eat. Dangerous to a diabetic.

She went through my prescriptions. my therapy request (physical, occupational and speech), a neurologist and what else?  I didn’t know. My brain isn’t working. I said “I don’t know” and rapped my cane against the tile floor. She screeched and ran from the room. I heard voices and what sounded like “Fuck”and “hit me”. There was much commotion and a “Ranger” (security guard) came to the room and blocked the door. A psychologist came in and spoke with me, never saying what the trouble was, just that I couldn’t leave.

I was upset. Anxious. My mind reeling with confusion and uncertainty. Stupid me, I thought she was there to determine what had happened. All I could do was babel about how a woman who was once a MENSA candidate could end up here and no one would listen to her because she had a stroke. A lot of good it did me.

A short time later, when the police and ambulance arrived, a police officer and the ranger took me into custody, which meant they each grabbed an arm and forced me to a gurney so I could be restrained. I fought back. I was told not to resist. In my mind, it was too much like all the times Mom would grab my arm and beat me on the head and shoulders as recently as 2014. Yeah, an 87 year old woman with dementia beat me because she didn’t like how I cleaned the hallway and she wouldn’t stop until I was crying and in the fetal position. Something she had done to me since I was a child over anything including being late coming home from school after talking to a teacher, not having a communal gang-bang behind the classroom which she assumed I was doing at 12 years of age.

Not true Anna? Were you there for any of it? You’re too much like your big sister. Happy now? You’re more like Gunn than you know.

The police officer never told me what I had supposedly done. Just said for me to calm done (that  is so easy with my broken brain) and pretty much behave and just  take it. They both hung on until I was secured on the gurney. Two hands gripped to each arm and bodily control.

I was taken to Martinez from Brentwood, to CCRMC ER. They asked me some questions. I pee’d into a cup. And a psychologist told me the folks in Brentwood, especially a psychologist, Ruiz I think, had  said I was “grandiose and delusional”.  He wanted to make sure I understood what had been said and that I was being released because I wasn’t a threat to any one.

They provided a taxi to take me back to the car in Brentwood. I still had to drive to Alameda where I was house sitting, having been driven out of the house I was in in Brentwood.  I’ll get to that.

It was 10:00 pm and I was dead tired but still had to drive using GPS ’cause I can’t find my way around a cardboard box anymore and it’s dark and my eyes are shit. I make it to Alameda, unload the car ’cause I had stuff still left at Amanda’s and passed out on the bed and didn’t wake up until Diana found the car open the next morning with the keys on the roof, the car door open, the garage door open, the patio door open and me groggily dealing with being shouted awake.

The aftermath sucked. I dreamed that night. The first time I know of since the stroke. Of mom beating me and the cops helping her. Mmmm, happy memories.

I tried contacting news agencies, including 7 On Your Side, but nothing. No one gives a shit. Hey, at least I’m not black!  They wouldn’t have released me then. Probably.

And six weeks later, I had a knock on the door at 11:45 pm. It was the Alameda PD and they were checking on me over a suicide treat. A what? Facebook had called them because of a post I had made earlier that night. Yeah. a Facebook post for my GoFundMe campaign where, in the 2nd to last paragraph I had written, “would rather wrap my car around a post”, was a suicide treat. Frisked, handcuffed, and boarded onto an ambulance and taken to a Psychiatric ER in San Leandro where I was released 13 hours later when they had determined I wasn’t about to commit suicide.

Why did they take me in? That 5150 in Brentwood a few weeks earlier. That FALSE police report by that Bitch Berg and her Psychologist partner.

You know what else Contra Costa has done to me? Charged me for the ambulance ride to Martinez. They also banned me from using Brentwood Clinic because they want to spare their employees from unruly patients.

How about sparing their patients from do-nothing, lying staff? Terrorizing patients?  Physically detaining them? Why not start with that, Director of Ambulatory Services?

Then there was the whole bit with my dear friend Amanda and her fucking “happiness”. Why not try a new therapist after 8 years and not blaming everyone else for your issues? I had a stroke with brain death. Didn’t know? Neither did I. Did you ask? Neither did I, because I didn’t know what to ask even  and I couldn’t form words, dumb fuck. Did up on look it up on your phone like you do everything else? I had a tendency to cry. Not because you. Not that I could control it. It wasn’t meant to upset YOU or cause YOU distress. My brain isn’t under my control anymore. I wasn’t “doing” anything to you, you fat selfish fuck! I wasn’t conscious of any it.

When I made that Facebook post, I didn’t include you BECAUSE I WAS ALREADY LIVING WITH YOU AT YOUR INVITATION. I had to leave BECAUSE  YOU WERE MOVING. I asked if any of the people I knew had room to spare, and you went ballistic and MOVED UP THE DATE I HAD TO BE OUT. Not February as you first said. Not even January. But NOVEMBER JUST A FEW WEEKS AWAY.

You accused me of doing something to your skirt (ugly shit) and Brandon’s  boxers. Like what? WTF? I did your laundry every week, put it all away, fixed your closet so you could find shit one place in your fucking house that wasn’t a pig sty, and  you wanted to know what I had done with them? How fucking sick are you? After I had been doing it for months, falling and stepping over shit constantly. Cleaning up after myself just as I had in my own house which you hardly ever do except put it in the sink. Maybe. Bitch at your daughter for not cleaning up the bathroom to your expectations. When the fuck did you ever cleanup after yourself? Use a garbage can, not a bag on a hook in the kitchen that would be overflowing so trash was on the floor and all over the kitchen. Empty Dr. Pepper bottles on the couch. Candy wrappers between the sofa cushions. Shoes all over the floor at the base of the stairs for someone with a limp and movement issues to slip or trip over?

I was keeping Lili from doing her chores? I loaded the dishwasher so there would be plates and utensils to use for eating, not just stacked in the sink until she got to them eventually.

Sorry I had a stroke Amanda. It was cruel of me to have one and impacting you. How rude of me. What a rotten way to abuse our friendship. What a terrible thing to do to our  business. That same business that 2 weeks after my stroke, you needed to know if I was “in it or not”. Two fucking weeks, and I could barely talk, yet I have to have  give you an answer because you have to know because of your mental issues? Fuck that shit! Everyone has to kowtow to you and your issues. There are other people in the world. No wonder you have difficulty being partners with anyone else. You’re a self important bitch who can’t deal with anyone else suggestions until you can usurp them. Get a free ride and bitch how they do nothing. How about you not sharing but just taking over?

That weekend in Sonora? I assembled the shelving I had and you “helped” by holding the uprights while I drilled and fastened them together. I took them in from my car and I took them out to my car. Pine Ikea Ivar side rails and shelves. Shelves weighting 8 lbs each and there were more than 20 of them. I had brought enough for 21′ of shelving, but I stopped at 12′ because You didn’t want that much. You have a bad back, so you were useless. I have a bad back too, and that might have been the reason for my brain being deprived of oxygen when my neck muscles spasmed.  I wanted the show to be successful for you and it almost KILLED ME.  But, I am complaining out of turn. At least I got $160 from that show. How much I spent – who knows. I really enjoyed having to return the shelving to storage by my self. Moving boxes just to get to the space to return all that to my rented space A WEEK AFTER THE STROKE. Just so I could save you money and Brandon didn’t have to build anything.

I treated you so well. Like a little sister. If I were a lesser person, I would say you’re a self serving cunt, but that’s not me .  And I was never “critical” of your parenting, never said you lied to your kids, never made a claim against your narrow minded anti-immigrant rants. I had a different view and it was non-confrontational. Pity you never learned civil discourse. “They did stuff that affected me” isn’t an excuse to go off on someone else. A Muslim high school won’t impact your property value.

How did that move to Vacaville go? Oh wait. You didn’t move. Oops. My mistake. Good thing I got out of your life.

You did take me to a couple of doctor’s appointments. You did come  to the hospital when I had the stroke. I drove myself because ambulances are so expensive and you had your twice weekly therapist appointment that day – and needed it – so I drove myself. 3 days in the hospital. The only time I have ever stayed at the hospital that I can recall. Drove home too. I didn’t want to upset the little one. And that’s my problem – I don’t want to be a bother.

Less than two months before, I had a cousin  from Dad’s side of the family find me on Facebook. And I found out how much Mom and Dad lied about, especially Mom. I had a brother. Dad had a biological son and she alienated Dad’s family so they wouldn’t lie about what she had done FOR YEARS.  I knew I was adopted when I was 11, because Mom was a lousy liar, but Dad? Because of her, of course. Whatever kept her happy and quiet. Gunn was wife #3 and he had a child with #2? God forbid she was a STEP -MOTHER. She was barely a mother. That was too much to deal with and with a complete and healthy brain.

And 2 years ago I moved back to the Bay Area after taking care of Mom, her life and her estate, in Southern California with no help from anyone and she had Alzheimer’s Dementia.

That is my life in 24 grueling months. Good times, right?

Thank you to my Norwegian Anderson relatives, for your support and caring, especially since I needed that for my mental health and well being. Dad was a good man with serious flaws, a screwed up 3rd wife and in-laws. I got nothing from the Jorgensen side who lambasted me for telling ugly truth about the dead and didn’t say one fucking word about my stroke. That meant so much. Especially Freddy and his “good words”. Fucking lies and opinions based on NOTHING.

How Life Sucks Now

Not a hopeful title, but real.

I want to be a writer, a teller of tales based on actual facts. No lies for me! Had a lifetime of those, and lies damage the lives of those lied to and about.

I will continue to write about Dad. Too many happy memories are because of him. And if recounting her behavior is part of that it’s cathartic. Exorcising the demons, if you will.

Now to exorcise, and accept, the demons of today. Namely, life with the aftereffects of stroke.

I have been seen in the ER 3 times in 6 weeks. I have 3 neurological referrals and 1 from my current PCP. Paperwork and rote acceptance of scripts made it impossible for me to affect a reasonable and acceptable response on the phone calls.. Gee, if humans just listened and thought beyond the script! You know, thought like humans – not automatons! Situation has been resolved with plenty of phone calls, bitching and I can now be scheduled to actually see a neurologist. Geez Louise what a pain. Or simply FUCK!!! This is not NC17 rated folks.

I was seen in ER last night – again – and my friend Myrna took me because I didn’t want to kill anyone while driving the 5.8 miles to Valley Care ER. Or call an ambulance cause those fuckers are expensive. In by 6 pm, out by 10:30 pm, not too bad. Had blood work, EKG, Cat-scan, an bag of IV and I was advised to go home, rest, and make an appointment with a neurologist within the next 3 days. Hence, the rigmarole with insurance. He’s not covered, call here. You have to call back Sept 1, I can’t schedule you until then. Your PCP needs to see you for her to process a referral. OMG! Are you serious! I saw an ER doctor and I have to make another appointment to verify I need a neurologist when I already have 3 including one from her??

You know, next time a nurse asks me if I want to kill myself I’m tempted to say yes just to get a doctor who can get me to someone who will figure me out. SHIT! I am seeking medical help not the quickest way to ease my perpetual frustration with the medical profession. (Via euthanasia)

I received a call this afternoon from a person who is handing referrals. After I interrupted her enough and told her “let me finish!” I was able to explain I had handled the issue that kept them from handling it. They had to call to verify, but it can move forward now since they had already been notified. Twits. Listen, You may learn something.

I have barely enough money to live on, thanks to General Assistance from Alameda County and CalFresh (food stamps). $ 500 a month, $200 strictly for food, and certainly not “fast food”. The $300 in General Assistance pays for my car insurance (it’s AAA and I’ve been a member for 20+ years, there are cheaper, but better? Nope), my cell phone (Verizon – I like “coverage”) and tank of gas, maybe 1 1/2. A little bit left for I don’t know, toilet paper, Jack in the Box, soap, shampoo, laundry. Not the movies. Not shopping, Not anything “fun”. And certainly not rent for keeping my things. That would be $595 a month, not counting current late fees.

I could get a job. Sure. I’ll get right on that. But wait….I can’t do what I used to do and certainly, not 40 hours a week from 8-5. My mental capacity has bee ruined. Part of my brain is dead. I don’t know “how to” anymore. But your resume says….. That was before a devastating lucanar stroke changed and diminished me.

Dad did this amazing thing when I was little. We went grocery shopping and he would say. “The total will be around $51.75” or something. That never included tax, but did include produce. This was amazing to my young mind, until I figured out he was keeping a running total in his head of a full shopping cart of the family’s food needs. I wanted to be impress Dad that I could do it too, so I started to keep my own total. I told him when we got to the checker (leaned over and whispered, I think it will be…) and he stated his belief, and he was $1 off and I was $2. I was happy I had made a close total, and he said “not bad! Keep it up!” And I did. He eventually asked me what I thought it was, made me say it out load for the checker to hear, then gave his own total. We were never the same, but we were close to the total, usually produce threw me off more. Then, one day, I gave my total and he said nothing. I was perturbed, but knew better than to show it. I was 3 cents off! Holy crap! Mine was the narrowest margin ever, and I was 13! When we got the receipt, Dad noted the total on it and folded it and put it in his wallet. I asked him why. “You were closest to the actual total. I want to remember this day, because you bested me.” That was a very proud day for me. Knowing I had made Dad proud and it wasn’t just a grade.

We kept up our private competition until Dad died, or more succinctly our last trip to the grocery store November 2001. I still did it until I had my own stroke in November 2016. To stay as sharp as Dad and it was a happy ritual. I often hoped for a child who would want to do it too, and not because he/she was eager to please, but because it was fun to compete with the older set! Didn’t happen. And with the stroke, that “skill” went away. I can’t add more than a few numbers without using a pencil and paper. I keep trying, but I just cry now. That Pseudo-Bulbar Affect is a nuisance. Subtraction without a calculator doesn’t work. Multiplication either. Percentages become fractions causing much head slapping and mutterances of “Idiot” before I can get to the number. And I’m a Finance Specialist, with Assistant Controller, Operations Manager, Vice President of Operations and Director of Finance on my resume. I can’t do that, the finer points, for 40 hours a week from 8-5, so good luck finding a job! I would fail miserably, if I could physically manage to get to work and remain cogent, functional and awake by noon Friday. Or even noon Wednesday.

Yesterday, I tried to deal with the insurance debacle. and after 4 phone calls, I was so exhausted I had to lay down. I woke 1 1/2 hours late feeling worse, confused, barely able to think clearly, but enough so to ask Myrna to take me to the hospital. There is something wrong with me, because I feel like I am dying. And I don’t want to. I really don’t want to. There is so much I have to do to insure no one is treated as dismissively as I was by the medical staff that was charged to take care of me after my stroke.

Not like the doctor who asked me if I wanted to have another aneurysm by not taking a drug that made my retinopathy worse. Like having eye hemorrhages was enjoyable. Having routine quasi-lobotomies via eye injections was fun. (Excellent Optometrist – I never feel it, just see it, feel the pressure of it.) I had a stroke – my head was never cracked open. No doctor ever told me I had an aneurysm. Know something I don’t? Refer me to a neurologist then. No? You’re the “expert”, I guess. You never even said what kind of stroke I had. I just knew it was lucanar from the ER doctor who treated me, my speech therapist had to explain what that meant – 8 months after the stroke.

I’m bitching. Sorry. I may have some reasons to be bitter after a year and a half of persistent ignorance and apathy. I am hoping that will change now that I have new insurance through another County. Hell, they approved general assistance. If I had more than $50 in my bank account, the other County would deny me. I had enough to live on, supposedly. And people wonder why homelessness is such as issue. I know why it is in Contra Costa County.

They have medical practitioners who lie about their clients, even have them arrested and taken away on a 5150 for not actually doing anything. Have the Fire Department send a bill for the ambulance because Contra Costa won’t pay for that when it’s a violent incident by a patient against county workers. Don’t investigate – patients lie. How sweet and justifiable. I have PTSD now. The police and their “ranger” took my arms and “controlled” me until I was strapped to a gurney for transport. The Policewoman never said a word on what reason I was being restrained. I didn’t know until a psychologist informed me that I had supposedly hit, or tried to hit, my nurse practitioner, and her friend/associate informed County I was “grandiose and delusional”. I was released within hours because they found I wasn’t a threat or a harm to others. Then more stuff happened when I got to Alameda at midnight, including passing out due to exhaustion, leaving a garage door open and my car door open with the keys on the roof. Nothing was taken and I started “dreaming” again (I hadn’t since the stroke). Well, nightmares returned, especially of Mom beating me. Maybe that is why I “resisted arrest”, besides having no idea what I had done, just like with Mom.

I was so emotionally distraught after this event, having gone to Brentwood for my appointment, transported to Martinez on a 5150, having to take a taxi back to Brentwood, and driving back to the home I was housesitting in Alameda. And I had started my day at the house I was living at in Brentwood, packing and removing my belongings because my “Friends” wanted me out as they were selling the house supposedly and I was impeding on their (her) happiness. That is another tedious story. Let’s just say the “her” is nuts and a selfish bitch who doesn’t know anything about a stroke, it’s impact or what it does to a person, other than it had a “negative’ impact on her and I had to go. They are still in that house. I drove by there last week and they were in their front yard. Happy, Amanda? You got rid of me and your problems. Being friends with you was among the stupidest decisions I ever made, and thinking we could be business partner? It’s all yours now. I hope you fail astronomically. Two weeks after the stroke you ask if I want to continue? I could barely walk a straight line and could barely speak, but I cried too much for you and I was a potential trigger. So much for being your “big sister”. I never questioned your parenting (I could have), you were so paranoid over everything, even my Facebook posts. I couldn’t have my own opinion if it didn’t match yours? Controlling much? Many of your thoughts disgusted me and I never wrote about any of them and mentioned you, did I? I did your laundry and put it away as a way to say thank you for living there, and you ask me where your skirt and your husbands.boxers are? Where would they be other than where they were intended to be once washed? You criticize your daughter that she didn’t clean the bathroom to your standards…what standards? A plastic bag is the trash bucket for the house hanging from a hook in the kitchen, and you complain it isn’t clean enough? When you were at my house, where I had plenty of trashcans, I went around after you and picked up after you, even empty Dr. Pepper bottles. Did I say anything? Your house is a perpetual pig sty and you dare to comment about neatness? Accuse me of doing something with a polyester skirt I wouldn’t be caught dead in? And what would I do with male boxers? Moonlight as a transvestite? Where is my Rowenta iron by the way? Never could find it after you took it out of the laundry room. Or the yardage counter. I received $140 for my investment, time and energy. How much did I spend? I took back a few items you didn’t care about, and you got tons of my stuff when I moved for your “studio”, though I traded 3 months of cell coverage for the white shelving that you used, and some was destroyed or just gotten rid of. Just like gifts to your children, don’t want that anymore and who was it from? Off to Goodwill or trash. It’s just stuff, after all.

There are other episodes over the last year with other friends that has made this entire experience more than depressing. I’m vomiting words, because if it could happen it happens to me.

I am not lying. I have witnesses to actual events or gave emotional statements immediately following with proof of what had happened. And some people actually saw that behavior from them. I have been through too much and I didn’t cause it, just a victim of it. And I hate being a victim! Especially a victim to someone’s mental instability.

I need help….not agencies that can’t help. I need a neurologist to diagnose and help me, not lipservice from a idiot with a medical license. Talking is still hard for me, some days worse than others like yesterday. Some days I can write eloquently, or in a similar style that I used to but not consistently but it’s better than speaking.

I need financial help and ideas for jobs that I can try to do. A research assistance, for example. I can do that! I did plenty of research on stroke, enough to write an extensive paper on. And I have done it before for personnel manuals, startups. business manuals, product development. I’m a bibliophile. I can research anything from correct and valid resources. Not just the Internets. I did an application for Barnes & Noble for a Book Seller, they needed one at my local store, but I’ve heard nothing. I have completed applications for many jobs and positions, but they want a full time commitment and that is something I cannot guarantee, or really even try without needing to lie or end up in the ER or have a hospital stay

I don’t want to loose what I have worked for and many well loved memories and past endeavors, decades of heritage and ancestors. It would be like setting fire to my past and doing nothing. I don’t have much else. Family I barely know far away. A few trusted and loved friends. But is it enough to want to continue to live? No, it isn’t. It isn’t enough. Life is too miserable when you are alone and don’t have the ability or means to do anything. Or just the will.

Thank you for reading this. I wrote it and it made me happy to complete it. You have to take the small victories when you have them.

https://www.gofundme.com/wants-to-live&rcid=r01-153397110751-a09cf352a5ba4bee&pc=ot_co_campmgmt_w

Open Letter to Dad on his 99th Birthday

Hey Pop –

You tolerated that name, but you preferred Papa. You were Papa when we were alone or in Norwegian mode, but you were always Dad regardless, even Daddy. A pretty awesome Dad too. I just wish you had been truthful. I wouldn’t have stopped loving you. Mom on the other hand…….

I still miss you, especially today. I enjoyed this day more than my birthday! You figured that out, I know. Dad’s special day and Mom couldn’t screw with it. Ever. She did enough in every other aspect of your life, didn’t she? Hell, she took your life, even if she had dementia. She had to lie about everything with anyone just to get her way. She had to be right, even if it harmed others. Or herself. She almost finished me twice. She got you, though, with help from your PCP who had dementia. You listened to him since your cardiologist was on his sabbatical which he had delayed for your surgery and recovery? You listened to him and Mom instead of the man who assured you at least another 10 years of life? What he couldn’t do for his own father, and you threw that away because Mom didn’t want you addicted to drugs like coumaden? Since when had Mom gone to medical school and become a cardiologist? Or become an actual nurse, not just a CNA? What the fuck did she know? I almost died from a penicillin reaction, because no one in her family had that allergy. She was a malignant narcissist. It cost you your life! But, you warned me, she wasn’t well. No, you knew she had the first stages of Alzheimer’s Dementia and she would need me. Why? Because you knew without the coumaden your heart might stop? An exit plan because you couldn’t deal with anymore of her bullshit and keeping things private, even from medical professionals? When was she locked up in a psychiatric facility? She kept harping “they” wouldn’t lock her up AGAIN. That wasn’t during my lifetime, but sometime  before. Before you? Uncle John knew, didn’t he? Took that to the grave with him. He bailed his little sister out of too much shit, especially when she lived in Denmark. She left home when she was 19 and never went back if she could avoid it. Her family didn’t know her either. Not like we did.

You always said there was nothing we could do to change her, but why live with that year after year? Was she THAT good. She told me stories when you were gone. Sick shit a daughter should never hear out of her mother’s mouth. Can’t bleach my brain! I should be so lucky to have a caring and attentive man like you! Bleh!

God she was sick and disgusting. Even blamed me for trying to steal you. Uhuh. Yeah, that sick fucking Bitch. I did take care of her, just as you feared. Even with 25+ years warning, it was worse than you figured. And you left! That was where she went. Dying was leaving. How could you do that?! Honestly? What took you so long?

Yes, I know she was sick. You warned me, not just the Narcissism, but she got Alzheimer’s and that nasty crap she always did ramped up like she was on steroids. But, her family just did the typical crap. Now some of them bitch because I’m speaking ill of the dead. As if we could have said anything and if she had found out? Hell hath no fury than a narcissist having her reality restored to actual time. They didn’t know her like we did. She left them before she became the heartless, self serving malicious narcissist we knew and had to love. But your family knew her. Thank God she wasn’t Karstan’s stepmother. Poor guy wouldn’t have made it out if his teens before she ruined his life, and fighting her on two fronts would have killed you sooner. I doubt you would have made it to 70.

Remember your birthday when we went on the MSV Hawaiian Chieftain? That was so cool, Or that time we went on the USS Jeremiah O’Brien and we all got a lesson on calls from the Bridge to the Engine Room. Even the Docent thought you should be one, you knew more than he did. Or that Harbor Cruise and Mom stayed below deck so her hair wouldn’t get icky. Just like ’85 on the way to Halsa. We relived that moment. And we had a good laugh again. Didn’t get the same reaction from the crew the 2nd time, but I still recall the dignity and respect they showed a Captain. You always had the bearing, even when the Bars were retired. She put the kabash on that, didn’t she.

Being on ships with you, that was always the best. Being near or in the water holds so many memories. Not with Mom, just you. All those days at the beach or going to the docks or walking on the decks of the Hawaiian Chieftain or the Christian Radich, I’m speechless, though my heart and mind are full with happiness.  Your moments of peace were here haranguing had no effect.

I’m sorry Daddy that I couldn’t help you in the end. I knew she was sick, I just didn’t realize how bad. You enabled that for too many years. Hell, she stabbed me with my own scissors! Called the Cops because I was so sick of it. But, her lousy doctors wouldn’t believe she was as bad as I tried to tell them BECAUSE SHE DENIED IT of course. She assumed her “I don’t speak English so good, I’m a foreigner” bullshit and it still gave her what she wanted. Didn’t tolerate it in my teens and I was sick to death of it after 30 years. No, it was funny how stupid people were! Yeah, haha. I fucking hated that shit. And in self preservation mode, she disowned me and said I wasn’t her daughter. She tore up the adoption papers, she said, when she realized I wasn’t “right”! She also hit the nurses when they wouldn’t get her a taxi she could jump out of when they got to the freeway  and were going fast. She had a urinary tract infection and we were at the ER. Oh, what a fun Saturday night that was! Not like tonight 4 years ago (only 4?) when she grabbed the wheel and tried to crash us into oncoming traffic coming home from Hemet and a good steak dinner and remembrances of you. She’d forgotten and that was my fault. Worthy of the death penalty in her mind.

Being clueless on the language didn’t work in Norway, did it? Couldn’t fake an English accent or be so dumb she forgot her native language. She forgot enough on the phone though.

I didn’t mean to yack so much about her. I detest what she did to you and your family and her family said nothing! Did nothing. Can’t even get it through their thick Northern Brains what it did to us. Why did we come back after 6 months. Most expensive vacation EVER. Mom lived her episode of the Rich & Famous. You never recovered financially, did you? Mom had access to shopping malls again. How vapid did she have to become before you’d leave her?

She did know what she was doing Dad. I told you that for years. No, no, you would tell me, she’s not that bad, just difficult. Difficult? Really? She fucked up your life, made you stop taking the one drug your cardiologist said you couldn’t stop or die, hell, she threw out my meds and I started having my own mini-strokes! I just didn’t notice until I had the big one that pretty much stole my life. She was gone then. Figures. I was busy taking a care of her, I didn’t have any time left for me.

You should have let me stay here in ’85, Dad. I would have made it. Your pipe dream of returning home and regaining the dignity she stripped from you cost too much and I don’t mean just your pension. Jesus, you were 68! You should have been able to retire, but keeping her stocked in trips to the store cost too much. Shit, you died broke and I had to take care of her! Never stopped until she died, and that stupid punk Freddie (that apple didn’t fall far from the tree and it was just as rotten) claimed I stole from Mom.

We’ve put up with too much over the year’s for the sake of her family. I’m talking to the Anderson’s again Dad. Arvid still remembers your stories from when he was young. And I’ve gotten to know Karstan, at least what we can through the Internet. Times are different. You could keep your secrets – in the 1890’s. I got a Christmas Card from Roar. Your sister hasn’t been well. Boy, does Karstan take after you! It’s a little scary. Why was it so important that we not know each other? Just because of Mom? Why the fuck was she so special that we didn’t matter at all? It couldn’t have been that good. You still had to deal with her attitude. Or her emotional breakdowns fabricated from whole cloth for your benefit and to get what she had to have.

I can never forgive Mom for how she treated your family. She wanted me to treat Kevin’s family the same way, but I refused to ever act like her. Besides, I loved Sharon like the mother I never had. I would never dismiss her just because she wasn’t “family”, but an in-law. You were dead and we weren’t notifying your family because they didn’t care about you? I knew that was as fake as her blonde hair dye re-applied every 6 weeks since 1965. That still eats at me, she threw out all your correspondence during Hospice, your notebooks, your phone numbers and addresses of relatives, but I was just lucky to have you and Karstan didn’t because of her and her reality. She felt threatened by your ex-wife and son. How pathetic is that? That made her a real woman? Yeah, a whorish home-wrecker. Bow-chicka-bow.

I know you two had a daughter in 1963. Is that when you all concocted this scenario? You were too old to adopt in Norway, so you came here? It was easy to find a cute little kid here, a war veteran and a ship’s captain wanting to console his wife after the death of your daughter and your wife’s unfortunate history of miscarriages or stillbirths? She’s listed as a housewife on the revised birth certificate. If she was a trained nurse, why not list that? She claimed the education and standing consistently.

She had a DNC in 69? I can’t forget Mom’s trip to the hospital. She used “DNC” as the procedure she had to get. Could a 4 year old remember that? She remembers your homecoming after you last trip as Captain! You looked pretty sharp in your regular uniform, dropping your duffle just inside the door and giving Mom a huge hug. I remember laughing and you swinging me up so I could hug you as well. I don’t recall the dress uniform, but I’ve still got the bars from that coat. That was 1968, right? Mom had that DNC at Kaiser and that was before I broke my leg at 5. Amazing what we remember from childhood. And that was before Rocky, my first Elkie. He was such a sweet dog. Why I got Heidi and Fen. Some memories need repeating.

I’m not doing so good Dad. You’d be disappointed and I hate that. I still excel at beating myself up. I’ve almost given up, Dad. It’s been too much for too damn long. I should have walked away when you died, but I stayed because I promised you I would. I would take care of her and I did for another 13 years though it ruined my life and left me with nothing. She was fine with that. After all, she took care of you when you and you left, she had no one to take care of her – even though I moved almost 400 miles and divorced my husband to take care of her, but why did I have to live with her? Why not live next door? When she needed something, she could have me take her where she needed to go and of course I would work, but close by so she wouldn’t have to wait while in pain/confusion/heat/bored/annoyance. You know, not like last time when they wouldn’t interrupt a meeting to let me know she was on the phone. The last straw and the first to go on the layoff. Yay! She never respected my work or me. I was there to do her bidding, to be seen and heard as directed at her convenience, regardless of the time or weather. Did you know I had the ability to change the weather? I could have been rich!

Fuck her. You weren’t there anymore. The beatings started back up again. 1992 to 2012 – a decent run with no violence. We shared a roof again so I had no rights, no privacy, no say-so what-so-ever. But I was older and had dealt with enough assholes over the years, she didn’t intimidate me anymore. At least I can say I never hit her – oh I was tempted, but I feared being unable to stop. I grabbed her forearms, just as I had in 82. Pushed her up against the wall and yelled in her face she WOULD NOT DO THAT AGAIN! You saw one episode when she beat me on the head and kept slapping my face, and you just about lost your shit completely. And that was before the headon collision. You were so pissed at her! OMG the argument you guys had! And she thought I would go with her? Man, she believed her own lies that completely. You fucking beat your daughter and call an 11 year old a whore because she was 10 minutes late by your estimation getting home from school because her teacher asked her to stop by before classroom heading home and she had a note for you, and she will go with you because you’re the better parent? Since when?

Dad, why didn’t you divorce her crazy ass? It would’ve been #3, so? We could’ve been happier and you could have lived a few more years doing things you enjoyed – not just taking her out to eat and shop for Lancome shit, shoes at Nordstrom, or go to Hallmark for the upteenth time. Shit, you could have had some money in the bank and no credit card debt. I took care of that, refinanced the house, paid off the car and set her up with a savings plan and put her on a Goddamned budget and made her stick to it, just like you did with me. She did know how to pay the bills, thank you for listening to me and getting her to do that. She did like her plastic though. Visa her friend in any weather or mood.

I don’t know why I’m doing this. I miss our talks so much. That was the hardest part when I moved up here, no more breakfasts while Mom got her hair done every Saturday morning. I could tell you anything- well almost. You were still Dad after all. I could talk to you about almost anything. You were so different than Mom, it always came back to her and how I disappointed her, failed to do it her way. You never did that. A raised eyebrow (they needed more regular trimming BTW), my name grumbled under your breadth, a query if Chris had anything to do with it, the usual stuff. What I’d read over the last week. Any new music I liked. What I thought about the latest political headline. What were the voting issues and had I been paying attention. The usual stuff for us with a ManU update. I had that with you, never Mom. A hug when I didn’t do as well as I wanted on a test. Or when I had a bad day at work. Or when Mom was on my ass for some made up thing – you gave me the “Look” and I smiled. We had that. Just a knowing look could bring a smile to my face over anything. You may have adopted me, but I was your daughter, body, soul and spirit. You said I had the heart of a Viking and I’m still trying to….

but I’m failing Dad. I can’t work. The stroke stripped my ability to do math like we did. Who needs a calculator? We have our brains! Not so much anymore. I can’t add like we used to. You’d beat me if we went to the liquor store, because that grocery bill addition would have me in a puddle of tears on aisle 6. Subtraction makes me so confused. And percentages? Forget about it. I was beating my head the other day trying to figure out 20% of 20. I had to do grade school math and come at it two ways before I got to 4. Explanation shorter than the time it took to do the actual math. I was a Finance Professional, not anymore.

The one who counseled other’s in how to get a job, can’t get one herself because she doesn’t remember how it’s done. Her writing is shit. She can’t sign her full name without making a mistake. She can’t write numbers down without transposing some. Her former eloquence when speaking has taken flight through the nearest window, and her diction isn’t too hot either. Can’t get a job at Barnes & Noble, or remember story arcs of my favorite books, all of them. That workaholic I used to be is gone and I can barely read for an hour without having to take a break to give my brain a rest. It gets tried really fast. And I still don’t have an answer in what is wrong and how much of my brain died. I’ll see a specialist though, once the paperwork has incubated for a month. Well, they can book an appointment on after Sept. 1st.

I want to fight. Not let THEM win. I’m just so tired, Dad, and what’s the point anyway? I don’t have anyone. Kevin didn’t steal from me as Mom routinely asked every 3 months, just 20 years of my life, and any lasting hope for kids though he can have them now, I paid for the wedding and divorce, though he left me because I treated him badly. Huh? I paid the entrance and exit fee (can’t remember who paid for the license in Reno, I handled every other thing as his Administrative Assistant – God that got old), but he left me? We won’t revisit the Antoine thing, but when she accused me of running him off because I disappointed him, I could have ripped her head off. And I shouldn’t ever marry again because I have nothing to offer and I’m barren. I wasn’t when I was young, just didn’t have a man willing to tell a doctor “hey, I think there’s something wrong with my plumbing! Let me show you!” Fuck, if you pee like you’re 80 when you’re half of that, take him by the hand and go to a restroom and demonstrate. Then you’re hale and hearty, but “it” doesn’t feel the same, can’t risk getting the wife pregnant because she’s too old and forget about adoption because you never know what you’re gonna get. Well, your in-laws didn’t do so bad. You married what they got, dumb fuck. She still hasn’t forgotten she was 3rd or 4th on your priority list and she wasnt sexually attractive to you. It just gets better and better. I won’t mention the porn he downloaded on the computers and they had viruses. 70’s porn.

Sorry. Still do tangents. Some habits never die, like smoking cigarettes. They really pissed Mom off. LOL Can’t imagine what she did to you when you smoked. Kevin tried guilt tripping me about being old and him pushing me in a wheelchair because I had emphysema. He wouldn’t stay home with me when I slept walked my head into the vanity and had to get 13 stitches at 2:00 in the morning. Remember that? Weeks later, you guys came for a visit and the bruising recovery of two black eyes were now puce green and trailing down to my neck. The brace has been removed from my left leg. I couldn’t see or walk that morning, but he went to work because there was an attendance competition – which he lost because of me and calling in late for that morning. Darn he lost a free vacation day! I lost 3 sick days because my Boss sent me home because I looked like I was a car accident victim. And I was to think he’d push a wheelchair? As long as there was nothing going on that he had an interest in, sure. Maybe.

Remember all the visits to the ER? You were with me when they cut off my cast on my left leg. I thought that guy was going to cut off my leg and how I screamed! You calmed me down. Or when Bill called you at work and told you about that penicillinlreaction and how Mom didn’t handle it. Another time you threatened to leave and take me with you. Or did you want her to leave? One way or the other, she wouldn’t be our problem anymore.

Lack of sleep has brought some clarity. If I concentrate really hard, I can still hear your voice in my head. Your chuckle. Your rich baritone singing Bing or some old Irish favorite. I can’t remember the lullabies you sang to me. The stroke stole those. I could never recall what Mom sang. I’m sure she did, but all I remember is her tucking me in so securely I couldn’t move.

She had me recite the Lord’s Prayer in Norwegian. The only Norwegian she taught me, and it was pretty much repeat these noises. You translated and then sang. You taught me. You always did.

I could keep writing, but you know, I’ve gotta wrap this up. Happy birthday Dad. I’ll raise one to you as usual with supper. Skol!