Cancer

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Dad

Published July 15, 2019 by helentastic67

Dad

I rang my dad last week. Oh? You may wonder where this is going. It’s not going anywhere you imagine. Just trust me.

I rang him, he never rings me. He is my Italian parent, if you recall and it is fifty minutes of my life I’ll never get back.

The first five minutes he starts with ‘oh, I don’t know if you know/I don’t know if I told you?’ and I have to be rude and interrupt him to remind him, I saw him at Christmas and he has Sciatica and his left leg hurts.

Yes. Then he’s confused and surprised I am aware. A bit of extra information re my Pa, is that he was a builder all his life, he retired a little early, due to having bowel cancer. Don’t stress, he had chemo and radiation, he beat it.

NOT COMPLAINING

Then he got/had bladder cancer. (at least he is consistent, same are of the body) and he’s beaten that (again not complaining).

While he hasn’t got dementia, he is seventy-years old, I think undiagnosed, he may have had a series of heart attacks and strokes or just a bit of ‘brain-faze’ from all his treatments. Relax, he’s cancer free.

In reality, with his very serious dedication to smoking, cancer may eventually be his downfall, but he will not go down without a fight. But right now, he’s doing everything he can to complain about everything and not listen to anything I have to say to help.

Anyway, I digress, he then went into a rant about he would do anything to not have to use a walking stick to get around and how hard it is when half your body doesn’t work.

Oh my God, when he uttered those words and he could not be interrupted because he was not done. So, if you can’t feel my eyeroll and if I’d been there, he would have received a sever bitch slap (or a back hander).

He was so severely oblivious to who had had just made that comment to, I decided to give him one of my classic Helen lines.

“Shut the fuck up”

He actually stopped talking (I was impressed). Now, you may think that is the rudest thing and completely disrespectful to speak to one’s father that way. But, however, I will say that to my mother and she does. So, I should be able to say it to my father.

I love both my parents; I just love them differently and I deal with them both as sternly as they each need and can take.

Honestly, I am much tougher with my mum because if I don’t pull her into line no one will and on somethings she will never change, so I’ve learned to let it go. I guess I’ve learned to choose my battles there also.

Ah, the fifty minutes I said I’d never get back, yes! My father, at 70 decided to get a smart phone! His first smart phone and likely his first taste of the internet!

And I proceeded to help-desk him through how to use his search engine! “Dad, just put your finger in the white bar up the top!” And he grumbles the (and I stress) “typewriter” has gone away!” God help me! “Just tap in the white bar dad and the keyboard will appear!”

And fifty fucking minutes later! KMKMKMKM!!!!!!!(Kill Me!) That was the fifty fucking minutes of my life I will never get back! And I’m not even the Samsung daughter! I’m the Apple daughter!

 

And hit Like!

 

Heritage – Part 2

Published May 13, 2019 by helentastic67

Heritage Part 2

The other differences in my grandparents was this. When visiting my Anglo-Saxon grandparents, we would go out to the “Workshop” to visit my granddad in his office where he ran his Construction company, he started it way back in the mid-sixties.

I recall when I was young, going into his office and playing with his letter opener. It was a sword in its own scabbard. (Something he picked up on a holiday overseas) These grandparents were travelers. My father worked for my grandfather.

When we visited them at home, I recall getting out of the car and racing ahead, we would go through the garage, between the two cars there, inside the door that took us inside and walked down into the kitchen. Some days the smell of Linseed oil and Turps would greet us. Going down to the kitchen/dinning room and Nanna would be at the dinning room table with her white china and oils spread out around her. She was a woman of creative habits.

Set days, she would bake, others she would play nine holes of golf, others go to her fine bone china painting group or do her afternoon of painting at home or sewing.

If my grandfathers purple (aubergine) Datsun was in the garage, it meant he was home. We would check for him in his office and he would hug us and let us stand on his feet, while he walked us around some. (until we got too big).

In comparison, my granddad was the affectionate one, my Nanna was very grumpy and she wasn’t even very old. My Nanna was riddled with cancer. On one visit (I might have been six?) I let myself in the garage door and because mum had insisted, we knock, Nanna had, had some surgery to remove lumps of cancer from the inside of her legs (one thigh, one calf). In case she was resting, I knocked, she came down and let us in and as she walked ahead of me towards the living room area down the hallway, light filtered down, her thin cotton skin rather see through with the light coming from the windows down into the hallway. I would clearly see the huge chunks taken out of her legs. They were cut out back to the bone. I recall thinking that if they were both the same part of her legs, you could kick a soccer ball down the hall and it would pass straight through.

There are several things about this memory, 1) I was not into soccer. 2) They really weren’t big enough for a soccer ball and 3) Is this wrong? Or can I be forgiven because I was only a child? Note the preference in those three.

Cancer was a theme with this Nanna. She eventually had a brain tumour and the last time I recall seeing her, mum was in the kitchen doing dishes looking out the window towards the sink and I asked where Nanna was? I was told to go sit with her in the lounge.

She was wearing her dressing gown sitting on the couch. I sat and asked her if I could get her anything? She did want something, but couldn’t think what it was called. I asked her what colour it was? Trying to help her a little, turning it into a game. I don’t know if I knew at the time how serious it was, but I handled her gently, trying to help her.

She got more and more grumpy and frustrated, eventually she got up and I followed her to the fridge in the kitchen. She opened the door, then her crisper and pulled out an orange. Grrr.

You can appreciate her frustration, right?

She passed away at only fifty-eight.

More to write, just hit pause.

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