#family dysfunction

But today there’s been a sharp rise in his pain and his exhaustion, not to mention a steep decline in mobility and balance. It’s like some vital spark got removed in the night.

When people imagine childhood memories, they often picture carefree family outings filled with laughter and uncomplicated happiness. That is not how I remember family outings. I do remember going to Hope Botanical Gardens in Kingston, Jamaica with my parents occasionally when I was very young. And to be fair, the fact that we went at all probably meant my parents were temporarily in one of…

And then when I said yes he said he’d wait for us to bring her “next time.”

He keeps saying things like that. “Next time you come home. Next time you’re back. Next time next time next time.”

Meanwhile today my best friend growing up held my hand as she promised to help my mother at the funeral because it’s looking increasingly like dad won’t die until after I’m gone and I don’t know how I’m supposed to leave him knowing I’ll never see him again. I don’t know how I’m supposed to be able to do anything when it feels like I’m being cleaved in two every time he asks me what kind of cheese Holly Mop might like and making notes to add it to the shopping list.

I have been lucky enough to see Henry Rollins performing his spoken word shows two different years in London. The first time I sat in the third row in the Barbican and felt like I was just a handshake away from this powerhouse of a man. It was so good I didn’t want to blink so as not to miss out on even a split second of it.

He mentioned his difficult relationship with his father. They were each other’s polar opposites, more or less, his father was a horrible chauvinist apparently and Rollins (which isn’t his family name) has been no contact with him for a long time.

At one point he said (paraphrasing, because it’s over 10 years ago): ‘People say that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Except sometimes it falls into a catapult and is shot a mile away.’ My heart grew seven times its size.

He’s forgetting a lot. But at least now he’s taking his morphine. At least there’s that.

It’s also hitting me that while I am here to help and plan things and do as much as I can for my mother in advance, it is looking increasingly likely that I will not be here for the actual funeral itself, and Mum is going to be entirely on her own because my brother refuses to go.

She’s going to be alone, and that feels so much worse.

Realistically I know there is nothing I can do. Moth’s non-visa thing doesn’t reset again until October and staying longer here would get him in trouble. And I can’t fly back to the US on my own without him. So we’re stuck in this awful situation where it’s looking very likely Dad might still be alive when I’m leaving (he’s already surpassed the two weeks they gave him by a whole week), and pass the minute I’m gone.

Trust the old bugger to spend his entire life arriving hours early to events and then be late for this.

Anyway. We’ve picked an art gallery to host the wake. They’re going to make a display area for his paintings. I’m going to ask my friend to help and to take pictures for me so I can see it.

Mum is worried people will think it’s too posh. She gets a lot of grief from Dad’s side of the family about “being posh” compared to them.

I told her in the car ride home there’s posher middens than his side of the family, so if they give her any grief I’ll send them a formal invitation to sit on a cactus and swivel.