Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Respect for the coppers

As you all know, I have a healthy skepticism about the long arm of the law [do you wanna see a long arm, Otis? I'll show you a long arm!]. But I have an enhanced respect for the cops who have to break the bad news for families. I always knew that it was tough, but in an abstract way.

After you have to break it to your little-old-lady mom that her husband is dead, and that he's been dead for twenty years, you feel a little bit of the difficulty.

When you then have to "break" that news ten more times, because the idea can't be held, you get a pretty good picture of


the seventh ring of hell.

woe is me.



* sigh *

9 comments:

Little Johnny Jewel said...

I was going to suggest we go and see some comedy at the Drafthouse to cheer you up. Check the schedule.

Which would you prefer: Judy Tenuta or the the Funniest Fed competition?



Maybe the eighth circle...

Mister Parker said...

Yeah, we just got to the point where we stopped reminding my mom about things like that because it just upset her (and us) and five minutes later she didn't remember anyway.

Just wait until the day she points at a picture of your dad and says, "Oh, he was just a boy who lived in the neighborhood, but we never dated or anything."

And you live for the days she thinks the teddy bear in her room is alive and she takes it down to the nurse's station and says "I just can't take care of him anymore ..."

Fun times, my friend.

mister muleboy said...

And you live for the days she thinks the teddy bear in her room is alive and she takes it down to the nurse's station and says "I just can't take care of him anymore ..."

I have a pet snake I can't seem to wake up, but that's personal. . .




you know, I think you may be right that this sorta. . . . sucks.

Mister Parker said...

It's a little like becoming a member of the Dead Fathers' Club, except you get to re-join it every single day ...

Who Am Us Anyway? said...

Back when my brother & I were trying (unsuccessfully) to persuade my mom to put my dad in a nursing home, over a period of weeks we’d visit a dozen of these places separately, and then get together to compare notes. The idea being to find the One True Place. Ha.

One of the (relatively “high end”) places my brother visited and reported on to me included what they called “memory rooms.” He said one of these rooms was a 1950s or early 1960s-looking office, with typewriters & such, where the guys could “go to work.” Which put my brother in mind of a potential Twilight Zone-like script in which you might have a tough 1950’s executive guy stressing on some no-shit serious business crisis, he can’t get his counterpart on the phone to close the deal, he’s got a tyrannical boss & his whole career depends on making this happen, and the deadline is coming down and then … the nursing home aide comes in and says, “OK Mr. Smith. Time to put down your plastic play phone and come back to your room so we can change your diaper.”

When my brother finished that thought we both decided we needed many more whiskeys before we could even consider going home.

l'il jimmy watson said...

When my brother finished that thought we both decided we needed many more whiskeys before we could even consider going home.

damn.  In a Muleboy way, I don't drink.

It's probably important that I not start to think o' that as a solution. . . .

Today was an improvement, if getting more weird is "interesting." The overnight  visit from my father convinced her to pack all of her possessions into bags and place them at the door.

She remembered his stroke and death, but really wanted to talk to him before making any decisions.

Shit; I'd like to talk to the sonuvagun before I make any decions!

My life sucks

l'il jimmy watson said...

Of course, it could be worse; I could be a Red Sox fan. . . .

Who Am Us Anyway? said...

Hey there Mr. Mule, the stupidest thing is that I actually had known you didn’t drink but in my most classic airhead fashion somehow managed to completely forget that. And man I sure didn’t mean to recommend it as a solution, as booze has never helped me any either.

But I really have had a strong taste of what you’re going through with your mom, and it really is the worst of times. The good thing is that if you can deal with this, you can deal with anything – I think that’s almost literally true.

l'il jimmy watson said...

Who, so good of you to call back!

;-)

Fret not over mentioning the booze; I bathe in it nightly to prove I am its master.

Okay; I lied -- I run away on occasion to avoid fucking things up.

But I really have had a strong taste of what you’re going through with your mom, and it really is the worst of times. The good thing is that if you can deal with this, you can deal with anything – I think that’s almost literally true.

This is SO damned true.

A few of us on this internet thing have shared it.

Well, maybe more than a few.

Who, I can remember sitting in an empty ballpark watching a hapless team lose many a game, all with a certain student o' the movies [slow-moving student, I might add -- we'll reach 1939 when I croak] at my side. He was going through the same thing, and it sapped his strength [excuse me, "strenth"], and his energy, and nearly his will to live. The transition period was the worst. I felt for him then, not knowing [imagining, but MAN not knowing] how "worst" it would be.

In an existentialist sense, though [or maybe a Zen sense?!?], uh


who gives a fuck.

Existentialism and Zen don't work when you're hurting and frustrated, though. . . .