I’m writing in Real Time today because I can’t take my feelings public yet.  There are too many moving parts, and I need things to be within my control to the extent they can be.  I normally prefer to wait until I’ve thought everything through, and I have come to some conclusion I think is worth sharing.  I have no such conclusion today.  I simply have fear.  Last week I asked, “Are You Scared?”  This week the answer is an unequivocal yes.

I call my Mother every night at 6:05 PM.  I have an alarm on my phone for that purpose.  I called last night (nearly 17 hours ago), and I asked, as I always do, if my mother was available.  The man said she was not.  She was in the hospital.  I lost control of my bladder.

Mom fell yesterday, and she broke her ankle in three places.  She needs to have surgery today.  Mom is 91.  There is no such thing as minor surgery at 91.  I asked the man to which hospital they had taken my mother.  He instructed me to call my sister for that information.  This is the place where I face a difficult problem. 

I never speak negatively in public about anyone who is not a public figure unless I can hide that person’s identity.  I suspect anyone who really wants to know can figure out who my sister is, but she’s not on my Facebook page, and I won’t use her real name.  In the Horace stories, I call her Jan.  I will do that here.  I will refer to her husband as Jason, and my brother as Sheldon.  I am going to refer to my nephew as Harold, and his mother as Ann.  None of these are their real names. 

When I called Jan last night, immediately after hanging up with the Group Home, her husband, Jason, answered the phone.  He told me what I already knew, but he declined to tell me where my mother was.  He said they didn’t want me to call her and disturb her.  He said she was supposed to have surgery this morning. 

Naturally, I was upset by this.  I immediately tried to contact my nephew, Harold, on Facebook Messenger.  We haven’t talked in quite a long time, and I didn’t have his number anymore.  When I couldn’t connect with him, I tried the same method for contacting his mother, Ann.  She didn’t answer, but in a couple of minutes, she sent me a message asking if everything was all right.  I told her it wasn’t, and we began discussing the situation.  In a couple of minutes, I was talking to my nephew as well, and everyone was trying to find Mom. 

Harold called Jason.  Jason declined to give Harold any information.  Jason told Harold he would tell me the name of the hospital in the morning.  Harold told me to call Jason again.  I did. 

Jason promised to text me the address this morning, so I could sit in the waiting room while Mom was in surgery.  It’s 11:00 AM.  I texted at 9:15 to ask when the surgery was scheduled.  His reply was, “We have not received a call from the hospital yet.” 

I need to explain how I’m feeling.  That’s the point of writing this. 

I’m angry.  The source of anger is fear.  I’ve covered that in “The Problem of Anger.”  (That’s Episode 123, if you want to listen.)  I’m afraid of Mom going into surgery without me there.  I’m afraid of Mom not coming out of surgery alive.  I’m afraid of going to the hospital because I’m afraid of people, in general, and of my sister, in particular.  She has Power of Attorney over my Mom.  Jan can cut off my access to my Mother any time she chooses.  She has already restricted it significantly.  I can’t take Mom to lunch.  I can visit Mom only if Jan is present. 

I’m angry that I don’t have the chance to be where I need to be today.  I called more than a dozen area hospitals last night.  My nephew, Harold, found the numbers for me, but he made the point that Jan would almost certainly have told the hospital not to give me (or anyone else) the information that Mom was there.  I was unsuccessful in locating my Mother. 

If I find out where my Mom is, I can go see her, but to do this requires getting a ride there from my best friend’s boyfriend.  He’s a good man, but I don’t always think he’s much of a boyfriend.  Nevertheless, he has been helpful to me on more than one occasion.  He brought in the wood and bricks I needed to construct my bookshelves.  He fixed the sliding glass door in the back of my house.  I can’t open it, but at least it’s closed.  We get along all right, but we see the world very differently.  He is not on the ever-shrinking list of people with whom I would willingly choose to spend time.  He is, however, my only way of getting there.  My best friend has been on another vacation, this time in California.  I’m expecting her back tonight. 

Assuming I get the information, and assuming I can get the ride, I have to make myself appear to be a member of your species.  I never like to do that.  It makes me uncomfortable.  It means I will almost certainly be found lacking in public. 

This is all the more true because my sister has found me lacking all of my life.  The only people to compete with my sister in truly hating me are Anthony Tagonist and his family.  I’m not sure if I would rather be in the hospital waiting room with my sister or the trailer on Anthony’s property.  (Listen to Episode 124, “Unlocking The Gate,” for details.)  No matter how this day goes, it won’t be a way I like. 

If I can’t get to the hospital, I will feel like dirt. 

If I get to the hospital, I will have to face the hatred of my sister and her husband. 

I didn’t sleep well last night.  That should come as no surprise.  You wouldn’t have either.  I woke up around 2 AM, and I could feel that my blood sugar was way too low.  My brain was, at best, half functioning.  I made the trek to the restroom to ensure I didn’t empty my bladder in an unwelcome place again, and then I went to the kitchen to test my blood.  My blood sugar was 44.  For context, I’m including this information.

What is Low Blood Sugar?

Low blood sugar is called hypoglycemia.  A blood sugar level below 70 mg/dL (3.9 mmol/L) is low and can harm you.  A blood sugar level below 54 mg/dL (3.0 mmol/L) is a cause for immediate action.

https://medlineplus.gov/ency/patientinstructions/000085.htm

My brain was still working, for reasons passing understanding, well enough that I knew what I needed to do.  I have glucose tablets in the bathroom, and I have ice cream in the freezer.  I need to consume those things to get my blood sugar to a safe place. 

For a moment, I didn’t want to. 

I realized I had less than 5 minutes to make a decision.  After that, I would no longer be able to do what needed to be done.  I would lose consciousness, and I wouldn’t wake up.  I took a solid 20% of that time to think things over.

Obviously, Marc Antony is not going to approve of suicide.  (If you haven’t heard “Horace’s Final Five” you won’t understand.  You need to listen to it.  I’m not going to try to explain here.  That’s not where my head is today.)  The thing is, though, that suicide implies an act.  If I intentionally inject myself with too much insulin, that’s suicide.  I didn’t do that last night.  I was simply unable to eat anything. 

All I needed to do was nothing.  I could decide I didn’t care, go get back in bed with Speedy Shine, and I wouldn’t be in this position this morning.  My best friend, when I talked about it with her this morning, called it Suicide By Apathy.  That’s a fair description. 

I didn’t bother with the glucose tablets that would help get my blood sugar back up promptly.  I went back to bed where Speedy Shine was waiting for me.  He saw, for the first time in his life, tears in my eyes.  He cocked his head to the left just a little, looking at me as though he was confused.  I tried to smile at him, but that part of my soul had been vanquished by the evening.  He hopped over to me and started kissing the tears off my face.  I gave him some loves, and he started whining in a way I’d never heard before.  He gave me another look, and I understood what he was saying. 

In the last seconds before losing the ability to control my own actions, I went to the bathroom and took several glucose tablets.  I waited until I was steady enough on my feet to walk, and I went to the freezer and got some ice cream.  I shared it with Speedy Shine.  Today I can write about it.

My other fear is the hatred I’m beginning to feel.  I can’t let it infect my soul.  It is toxic.  It will keep me from doing what I need to do.  It will dissipate my ability to love.  It will stop my emotional growth.  I can’t have that.  I have to replace that hatred with love, so I’m listening to helpful music, I’m giving Speedy Shine extra cuddles, and I am talking to people I know love me.  I’m pointing the camera of my mind at things that feel better for me. 

The hatred comes from my anger and frustration that I have no access to my mother.  I feel insulted by the assumption that I represent any type of threat to her.  I am frustrated by my own powerlessness.  I am afraid that Mom is upset I haven’t talked to her.  I’m scared that she will forget who I am.  I’m worried that she is feeling alone and abandoned because she didn’t get her simple five-minute phone call.  I feel sorry for Mom’s pain.  I am worried about her inability to walk, even in her walker. 

All of those things are out of my control.  I need to focus on what I can control.  I can’t do anything about Mom’s pain, but I can reflect on my own feelings.  I can’t control those either.  They exist.  What I do about them, however, is in my control.  I’m not responsible for my feelings; I am responsible for my behavior.  I’m choosing to write about it, so I can see it in black and white.  It allows me to examine my feelings more objectively.  It allows me to recognize what they are, and it helps me to find ways of soothing them. 

I’ve learned now that they’ve decided surgery is not a good option for Mom.  Obviously, no one consulted me.  I like the decision, though, I think.  I can’t help but be scared of putting a 91-year-old woman under general anesthesia.  The possibility of not being able to pull her back is significant. 

She will, I’m told, be going to a rehab facility whenever the insurance approves it.  I’m not allowed to know where that will be.  I’m still not going to be allowed to talk to my Mom.  Yes, that causes me more fear and anger.  It’s also out of my control.  It requires more music, a little weed, and some more time at the keyboard. 

There’s a part of me that wants to scream at my sister and call her any number of unflattering names.  A case could be made she deserves it.  No good, however, will come of it.  It won’t help Mom.  It won’t help me.  It would, in fact, hurt everyone involved.  No one will come out in better condition than they were in before I yelled.  You might suggest I will feel better for having gotten that out of my soul, but I don’t take pleasure in hurting others.  I need to exercise self-control.

How will this all come out?  I have no idea.  I have no power to control it.  What I know is that, in one way or another, I’ll come through the other side.  Dying isn’t going to help anyone.  There’s a fair chance it would hurt a few people.  I’m going to do it anyway, so there’s no reason to rush it.  I can contain ugly and painful feelings.  I know this because I’ve done it dozens of times before.  I’m not 17 anymore.  I’ve known pain, suffering, fear, heartbreak, and poverty.  I’ve also known love, redemption, hope, success, and pride.  I know I will get them back someday.  It’s just a matter of surviving until then.

There’s a good chance you’re dealing with your own challenges today.  I’m hopeful that you’ll handle them without hurting yourself or anyone else.  I hope I managed to distract you from your pain and fear for just a little while.  Perhaps the distraction was helpful.

If nothing else, please know that regardless of what else is happening, I still love you.