A Fine Fuckery

All right because I’m majoring stressing out over here and apparently my sister, Lorie, and I have nothing better to do than engage in familial drama. It’s amazing to me how small little fuckeries can become super-mega fuckeries in a matter of, oh, say half a nanosecond.

Fuckery would certainly describe this mess. I don’t think ‘dysfunction’ does it justice.

As my father was an extremely violent man with my mother – he attempted to kill her on numerous occasions, the last being when I was 16, a few of us escaped. At the time of this ‘ incident’ she was pregnant with my youngest sister, CS**. It was dramatic enough that I found his 22-pistol which is how I got him to stop. I also told him I was going to hide the gun and if he hit Mom again, I’d kill him. I left the following summer after graduating from high school; I was 17. My ‘youngest’ sister, Lorie, who was 12 when CS*** was born, left shortly after I did and moved in with a friend’s family. I was a buffer, an intercessor until I left home.

Enough of the ‘background.’ We’ll fast forward to 2006 when my father’s doctors (two of them) gave him the diagnosis of dementia. Since then my father has been milked of every cent he has managed to save somewhere around $25K. His monthly income – which consists of money from the VA and Social Security – amounts to roughly $1300. The check card tied to the account into which his monthly funds were deposited was used for personal expenditures of two siblings, including house payments over the past year. (That is, that we can actually document between the ‘paper trail’ – i.e., bank statements.) Almost anything of value has been stripped or stolen from him. Everything ranging from power tools to the trunk he had while in the military in the Aleutian Islands during WWII, not to mention furniture, garden implements, keepsakes, and various collections and pictures.

One sibling in order to get back at the other sibling contacted my sister, Lorie, and I to “take care of things.” We’ve been this route before. Things heat up; there’s a bit of thundering & fireworks and we back off because they are so fucking TOXIC, we just cannot be around them before we soon are them. THIS TIME – we didn’t back down, and we warned them . . . . “Don’t drag us into this again unless you’re serious.” Oh yeah, yeah…..

Well, we’ve been serious since the beginning and it hasn’t been pleasant. Or easy. It’s been stressful. But what I’ve found is the number of folks who have had to do the same thing. An issue that came up – Dad’s mail – and who can lay claim to it. We had to go via the USPS Legal Dept in SLC. The guy there to whom my sister, Lorie, talked to and faxed copies of POA regarding temporary guardianship documents – just last year he went through the same process with his father. The community garden that is my “outlet” , two people there have had to deal with the same issue with demented parents.

At any rate tomorrow morning is when we are in court in Canyon county vying for permanent guardianship of a man who has been abused, neglected, and taken advantage of – although not beaten – who did unkind and brutal things to us and my mother.

The man who sits in his maroon recliner is not the same man who smacked us around. He doesn’t remember a lot it appears. He’s mellow and really funny. My 12 year-old nephew, who has had little contact with this grandfather, thinks he’s hilarious.

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One Response

  1. Wordsmith, I’ve become acquainted with dementia recently as my grandfather was diagnose and it is brutal. One day he knows who I am, the next he doesn’t know where I came from. He can’t find his socks, doesn’t know when bedtime is, rarely recognizes the love of his life that he’s been married to for fifty-seven years. It’s awful. Fuckery, indeed. You have my sincere sympathy.

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