How was your morning?
Mine was... well:
I got up, and actually managed to get to Harlem from Park Slope by about 9:30 this morning. Dimbulb (Younger Brother), who had set the time and date wasn't there. By 11, he hadn't called or arrived; by 12:30, when Helen and I left, there had still been no word from him.
Meanwhile, Idiot (Older Half-Brother) has invited a (rather skanky-looking) friend to live with him in Mom's apartment. To accomodate this man and his fighting cat, Idiot has moved all the items from the storage room out of the cabinets and off the shelves, and tossed them in the bedroom, living room, and front room, including clothing and books. At this point, we can't actually even begin to sort through things until the clothes are sorted out, which will take several trips. Fortunately, Gwen, my reasonable local niece will help Idiot (her father) to do so.
Helen (Older Sister) and I sorted through a year's worth of mail, which Idiot (who's been living in Mom's apartment since he got evicted from his own) couldn't be bothered to do. I made a database of people who have written or sent cards to my mother (Idiot picks up the mail, but never thought to sort it, except for utility bills and rent; Helen will take the cards to the hospital and nursing home, so that Mom can read them, if she's conscious).
Given the current circumstances, tomorrow after she goes to church, Helen will be removing the boxes of jewelry (what's left after Demonchild [Idiot's teenage fetal-alcohol-syndrome son] ransacked it and sold/gave away much of it), for Melanie (the other reasonable niece) to sort when she returns from college in Florida.
Meanwhile, my namesake aunt is blithely telling my older half-sister that Mom is doing fine in the nursing home. Mom has been in and out of the hospital at least four times this fall/winter, each time losing more ground, so we're pissed at the lie. Helen, Idiot and I are also pissed, because the half-sister (whom I have not seen nor heard from since 1979, and whom Mom had not heard from in at least seven years -- not even a card when my father died) has expressed no interest in Mom's health at all.
Aforementioned aunt and her daughter are telling Helen that since Idiot is not biologically related to my mother, he and his children should not inherit anything. The facts that my mother treated Idiot as her son, and always referred to him as such, and was the legal guardian of Demonchild, are apparently irrelevant all of a sudden. (You'd think we had something of value to inherit, other than roach-ridden books and photos.)
This is a nightmare, with no end in sight.
However, Helen and Idiot have agreed that I can take the stool. That's an inheritance worth having. It's a little oval wooden stool, that my mother bought for about fifty cents, for my half-sister (perhaps in 1950 or so); it's stayed with the family. Viette, Helen, my cousins Inez, Vanessa, and Kaisha, my niece Melanie, and I have all sat upon it to have our hair braided; everyone's sat upon it to watch television -- it's just a family thing. And taking it is part of my acceptance that Mom will never come home again (which the doctors have told us, since she refuses to cooperate with the physical therapists, even when she's healthy enough).
Now it's brown -- it's been other browns, and black, as well. After I clean it, though, I shall seriously consider stripping the layers of paint off it, and returning it to the antique gold color it was through most of my childhood.
Painting it was always Mom's job.
Now it will be mine.
I got up, and actually managed to get to Harlem from Park Slope by about 9:30 this morning. Dimbulb (Younger Brother), who had set the time and date wasn't there. By 11, he hadn't called or arrived; by 12:30, when Helen and I left, there had still been no word from him.
Meanwhile, Idiot (Older Half-Brother) has invited a (rather skanky-looking) friend to live with him in Mom's apartment. To accomodate this man and his fighting cat, Idiot has moved all the items from the storage room out of the cabinets and off the shelves, and tossed them in the bedroom, living room, and front room, including clothing and books. At this point, we can't actually even begin to sort through things until the clothes are sorted out, which will take several trips. Fortunately, Gwen, my reasonable local niece will help Idiot (her father) to do so.
Helen (Older Sister) and I sorted through a year's worth of mail, which Idiot (who's been living in Mom's apartment since he got evicted from his own) couldn't be bothered to do. I made a database of people who have written or sent cards to my mother (Idiot picks up the mail, but never thought to sort it, except for utility bills and rent; Helen will take the cards to the hospital and nursing home, so that Mom can read them, if she's conscious).
Given the current circumstances, tomorrow after she goes to church, Helen will be removing the boxes of jewelry (what's left after Demonchild [Idiot's teenage fetal-alcohol-syndrome son] ransacked it and sold/gave away much of it), for Melanie (the other reasonable niece) to sort when she returns from college in Florida.
Meanwhile, my namesake aunt is blithely telling my older half-sister that Mom is doing fine in the nursing home. Mom has been in and out of the hospital at least four times this fall/winter, each time losing more ground, so we're pissed at the lie. Helen, Idiot and I are also pissed, because the half-sister (whom I have not seen nor heard from since 1979, and whom Mom had not heard from in at least seven years -- not even a card when my father died) has expressed no interest in Mom's health at all.
Aforementioned aunt and her daughter are telling Helen that since Idiot is not biologically related to my mother, he and his children should not inherit anything. The facts that my mother treated Idiot as her son, and always referred to him as such, and was the legal guardian of Demonchild, are apparently irrelevant all of a sudden. (You'd think we had something of value to inherit, other than roach-ridden books and photos.)
This is a nightmare, with no end in sight.
However, Helen and Idiot have agreed that I can take the stool. That's an inheritance worth having. It's a little oval wooden stool, that my mother bought for about fifty cents, for my half-sister (perhaps in 1950 or so); it's stayed with the family. Viette, Helen, my cousins Inez, Vanessa, and Kaisha, my niece Melanie, and I have all sat upon it to have our hair braided; everyone's sat upon it to watch television -- it's just a family thing. And taking it is part of my acceptance that Mom will never come home again (which the doctors have told us, since she refuses to cooperate with the physical therapists, even when she's healthy enough).
Now it's brown -- it's been other browns, and black, as well. After I clean it, though, I shall seriously consider stripping the layers of paint off it, and returning it to the antique gold color it was through most of my childhood.
Painting it was always Mom's job.
Now it will be mine.