Boreal Witch

In our almost 19 years of marriage, I can count the number of vicious fights my husband and I have had on one hand. We rarely argue, though we do disagree over a key number of issues. I could cite a million different reasons - from astrology to personality - why we are compatible, but it's really quite simple: we are expert communicators. (Okay, "expert" may be too strong a term. "Really, really good" is more like it.)

Growing up, my parents did not talk to each other. Dad yelled to get his point across and Mom spit acid about him to us girls behind his back. Only twice did my parents ever sit down at the table and talk rationally about a family problem: when Mom accumulated a tremendous credit card debt and when my sister found herself pregnant at 16. 

Then and now, I am a witness to the importance of talking to your spouse. Dad has his first chemo treatment early tomorrow morning. I will be the one dropping him off. I am spending the night Mom and Dad's tonight. Josh wanted to tag along, planning to go visit his former teacher who works at Providence. Since I did not plan to make another stop before dropping off Dad, he insisted upon spending the night as well. For any other family, this wouldn't be a problem - my parents still live in our four bedroom family home - except for the fact my parents are hoarders and there is literally no room in any of the extra bedrooms for anyone to sleep. The large family room downstairs could be utilized if half the room hadn't flooded due to a leak in the baseboard heating. It reeks of mildew (and worse). Blythe refused to let Josh sleep over if he had to sleep in the family room. 

I extended a compromise - what if we asked Mom and Dad if Josh could sleep upstairs on the living room futon? Yes, Blythe decided, that would be adequate. I called Mom. She said it would be fine, not a problem. Josh and I came over. Everything seemed just fine. 

Then, of course, it was time to go to bed. Josh got ready to sleep upstairs. Dad freaked out, concerned over his boxes and boxes of stamps surrounding the futon. He became upset ("she never tells me anything!" a common rallying cry) until I explained the situation. Blythe's concern. The phone call to Mom. Obviously, Mom had not checked in with Dad. The two of them were not on the same page about suitable locations for Josh to sleep. I told Josh he could have my space. In frustration, Dad relinquished his half of the bed to Josh and is now (hopefully) resting comfortably on the futon. 

I'm (more than) a little annoyed over the situation. First, it's ridiculous my parents live in such a large house and can't have one open room for company. The room I'm staying in tonight was practically empty ten years ago - now there's so much stuff in it, the guest bed barely unfolds. 

But second, much of this problem stems from the two of them being so uncommunicative. They can't find a healthy way to discuss their problems - much less what's bothering them! - in a productive way. It drives me absolutely batty but there's nothing I can do about it. Anything I have to say about their relationship won't be acknowledged because they've got other, more pressing, issues at the moment. And, yes, it's true. They do. I will cut them some slack there.

Every. Single. Day. I am grateful for my husband. We may have married young. Many members of our family and friends didn't think we were going to make it. But we did - we have - because our marriage was built with a solid foundation of communication. 

My longest female friend, Naomi, came over yesterday. She walked through the door, we hugged, and I found myself suddenly sobbing into her shoulder. The week had been so stressful, so frighteningly real, it was good to be in the embrace of someone who's known me for as long as she has. 

We caught up on recent events, how COVID had affected us. Together, we processed the events concerning my dad. She told me a few stories about her parents-in-law and her budding interest in politics. Naomi described how shitty her 41st had been. Mine certainly hadn't been as disappointing as hers, but not much better as far as birthdays go. 

Saturday, we decided, would be our unbirthday, spent in the company of people we really and truly enjoyed, doing activities we really and truly enjoyed. Since my family would be getting together for a craft night, it seemed the perfect way to spend the day. 

We met my sister and the nieces at Jo-Ann's so I could help Becky pick out mask supplies for her girls; one would be starting school on Monday. We found backing fabric for two quilts at a local fabric store. (I even splurged on some manatee fabric because, hey, it's my unbirthday! Don't fret - I do have a plan in mind for this adorable yardage.) Naomi started knitting a hat while my nieces and I made groundhog cookies for the party. Becky and I sewed two rows of my Roman Roads scrap quilt. (I wished she and I lived closer. She's a chain-stitching machine!) 

Robinson sent me cocktail recipes (though I admit I dread having to make my own drinks - I have been spoiled by my wonderful husband!). I picked up Josh. The rest of the family came over. We had soup and talked and crafted. Mom brought out some old picture albums she wanted to sort. Dad watched "Barry" on Netflix. Becky started her masks. Josh and I recovered an old cork board with a striking black fabric for his pin collection. The girls colored pages in their coloring books. I hopped from project to project, as is my custom.  

Gifts were opened, cookies were eaten. Naomi, a huge smile on her face, commented she hadn't been around normal in a long time. I laughed on the inside because I've never thought of my family as normal, though with all of our problems, we generally do a good job taking care of each other. (Robinson would take Naomi's side here. He often cites examples from his "abnormal" family to compare and contrast with my "normal" one.) 

It was a great day. 

I frequent Little Free Libraries all over Beloit, dropping off old books and finding new treasures. I'm not particular about what I read - I've been known to read almost anything, provided the blurb on the back intrigues me enough to shove it in my purse. 

On a recent walk around the neighborhood with my nephew, I picked up a copy of A Short History of Progress by Ronald Wright. It seemed promising (and even more so when my dad read the back and made me promise to pass it to him next). I've been so busy helping my parents with their taxes (which have been finished as of this afternoon), there hasn't been a lot of free time to read. In what time I've had, I've made it halfway through and I'm hooked. 

Wright's argument is simple: we have made so much progress that we are now on a path to destruction. 

The book is simple, but brilliant. Wright did an excellent job taking many different disciplines and weaving them in a straightforward, concise manner. He explains history as a writer would unfold a story. It's enlightening and enjoyable and also...scary. 

We've gotten ourselves into an interesting predicament and if history is bound to repeat itself (which it so often does, as Wright claims), then we're nearing the point when our civilization is about to collapse. We don't see it, not yet, but it's coming. 

Why don't we heed the warnings? Is it because we choose not to? We're afraid? It's easier to continue as we've been doing because acknowledging the truth is too painful? Will people ever realize what we've done in time to save ourselves? 

We were in the entryway putting on our shoes, Dad and I. We had spent the day finishing up the last of the forms for 2019 taxes. There's only one left, which Dad planned on tackling tonight, after dinner. 

He turned to me and said, "You know, I'm really glad you're here. You've been a life saver helping me get these taxes done." 

Later, Mom joined us for dinner. I made lasagna. Mom brought soup, but he insisted on eating the lasagna and garlic bread. Was he trying to please me? Or was it because he so wanted to be able to enjoy a dish made by his loving daughter? (She would have been fine if he had soup. Honest.)

After dinner, Mom and I got a head start on the 2020 taxes, calculating totals for utilities and book purchases. She told me it took her several nights to accomplish what we did in just one. 

They left for home not too long ago. I wonder - there are five of us in my immediate family: Dad, Mom, my two younger sisters, and me. How is it I'm the only one who is able to get anything done? Is it too daunting to get started? Do they fear failure? Are they not excited about all the other stuff that accompanies a big project? Is it far easier to do nothing at all? 

Today was my birthday. I know birthdays are supposed to be happy and fun, but this one really drained me. I expected it to - no surprises. Gloria, the lucky birthday girl, ate Gilles's ice cream. I got taxes and a cancer consultation. 

The morning was spent entering 2019's capital gains and losses into H&R Block's tax program (which, in case you want to know, is a horrendous program - you'd do better wrestling with your own taxes). Mom called a local radio station and entered me into a birthday contest. I was the only call-in with a birthday today and won some tulips from Bagoy's. The catch? I had to pick them up.

She wanted to come over tonight. I said tomorrow would be better. I think she was disappointed, but I knew I wouldn't be in the mood for company tonight. (Turns out I was right.) 

Dad and I went to his consultation in the afternoon which went surprisingly well. I thought I'd have a tough time pulling myself together, but it went just fine. I drove my nephew to work and then drove to Bagoy's to pick up my flowers, which were...not there. The radio station had not called and therefore, the flowers were not available, not yet. A kind gesture had turned into a plastic hassle and by that point in the day, I just wanted to be back at my sister's house, eating one and a half slices of chocolate ice cream cake and working my way through a bottle of wine before cooking noodles and mushrooms for dinner. (Yes, you read that right. Get off my back, it's my birthday.)

I cried for no good reason. Between texts from my husband and my sister, one of my students called. He wanted to check in on me and get an update on my dad. I was reminded about what a privilege it is to be able to leave this country and come back whenever you want. His own mother had health issues last year. He wanted to go see her, but was unable to, not without great cost. He impressed upon me that I was a good person for being here for my dad and I had a hard time keeping it together because what kind of fucking horrible country would make it impossible for someone to return after they've left to care for their SICK MOTHER?

Blythe suggested I have my friend Naomi over. I told her I needed a moment to process everything that happened today. A moment to collect myself so that I could emerge stronger tomorrow. She understood.

My husband poured a shot of bourbon for himself because "I shouldn't be drinking alone."

I drank three glasses of wine. I took a bath. Then my mom called, wanting to know Dad's chemo schedule. (They don't talk to each other. They don't communicate. So she has to call me to ask.) I gave her the details and told her she should sit in when I tell Blythe and Becky about Dad's treatment, if she wanted to, though there wasn't much more to tell her at that point.   

To be fair, it wasn't a terrible birthday. It sounds like it was, but it wasn't. I am grateful to have had so many people check in on me today, especially since I was emotionally drained by the end of it. It reminds me that friendship works both ways. 

I'm in bed wondering how often do I reciprocate? Do I need to make more of an effort? How can I be an active friend? 

Was that my problem with 2020 all along? 

***

It's past 10. Dad called. The stitch in his side is worse than usual tonight. I might have to take him to the emergency room tomorrow morning. After we parted, he did a few errands and didn't get home until late. He ranted and raved about nearly slipping on the ice several times. He's frustrated that no one seems to take the pain in his side seriously. He's tired of the cold. He's sick of the dark. I think he overdid it today and his body is worn out. With a little rest tonight, he could be just fine in the morning. He could be just fine in the morning. 

He's so ready to leave Alaska. I have to convince Mom it's time even though she's so comfortable here. She's afraid of change. She's been in Alaska forever. I know it's hard. I moved out of state, but it turned out to be a really good thing for me. It would be a good thing for them, too. She doesn't have to treat it like a permanent situation - she could be a snowbird and come back every summer if she wanted, with or without Dad. For the sake of his health and sanity, they have to go. 

Today I mailed off my parents' 2018 taxes. They were three years behind. The IRS called Dad a few weeks ago. No more excuses, no more extensions. These taxes had to be done by early February. He and Mom have been trying to catch up. 

Dad's never been motivated to act when he's not interested in something. He'd much rather spend his time watching his new favorite show (The Closer), working on stamp books, or browsing the shelves at Salvation Army and Bishop's Attic. Mom's passive aggressive and will only act when the situation is so dire that not taking action proves fatal. (Case in point: the hole in the roof of the garage. Disaster with a capital "D".)

I can't imagine how frustrating it's been for both of them these past few years, filing extension after extension, and then not seeing results because neither one of them was motivated enough to do anything about it. There's nothing like a quick poke in the butt with a hot IRS iron to get you moving. 

I've been going over there nearly every day and, every day without fail, Dad and I crunch the numbers (in actuality, it's more like printing out enough forms to deforest half of the Tongass and rotating them from the 2018 taxes box to the top of the computer to the 2018 taxes binder to the floor) for two or three hours until Dad decides he's had enough for the day. Before leaving, I try to push him just a bit harder, suggesting we check the binder to see which forms we still need to print or fill out one more form. He won't budge. 

Luckily, Mom's been fairly active in the process because she sees progress. She's pleased the overachieving daughter is able to help get stuff done. I told her she was welcome to bring the 2020 taxes box over one evening. I've been trying to coax her over with wine and a Hallmark movie. I think she's planning to show up once the 2019 taxes are completed, but I should probably throw in the promise of dinner, just to be sure.

Tomorrow, it's my birthday. Unlike last year when my aunt Gloria and I to a road trip to visit Phil and got our picture on the front page in the Punxsutawney paper, I'll be heading over to Mom and Dad's bright and early to help with taxes. Dad has an appointment in the afternoon and then I have to take my nephew to work. I'll have to find the time to squeeze in a 10-minute phone call to my aunt. This is the first birthday in seven years we haven't spent it together. While I'm glad to be spending my birthday taking care of my parents, I'm a little sad I won't be having an adventure with Gloria, as is custom. I was so hoping to check out the ice castles in Lake Geneva this year. Better luck next year.