Life is a dark comedy.
I returned home to care for my parents. Both of them have dementia. At one time, they were health care professionals, accustomed to the deference of others. Certain of their superiority. Their dementia has not dimmed that viewpoint, at all.
I have learned that every cloud has a rhodium plate lining. And the basement has loads of laundry.
This is where I live. In their unfinished basement with spiders and centipedes. I thought it would be temporary. After all, I was the black sheep of the family. Certainly not my parent’s first choice for companionship. But, I thought someone needed to help my parents.
My plan was to get my thyroid tumor removed, get my health stabilized and return to work. So, given my poor health and pathetic lack of funds, I moved in. That was four years ago. Now, I have less money and fewer prospects.
I am 58 years old. I know because my birthday was about 1 week ago. How did I celebrate? I didn’t. Not from any oversight on the part of my parents. I got a cheque. And a card… Probably for the standard $100. The same amount I have gotten for the last 20 years. Our family does not believe in inflation. Actually we don’t believe in much. Except money. That is our faith, our god. To be worshiped above all else. Especially above empathy and kindness. We don’t do those. We don’t buy it or invest in it. Those shares are worthless, as my mother’s broker would tell you.
I have become my parent’s caregiver, dealing with the soiled diapers and sibling disdain.
My parent’s cognitive abilities have gotten worse. My siblings are uninterested. My father hates my mother. My mother hates my father.
Two parents.
One large, decaying house.
Zero insight.
A sure fire recipe for mayhem.