I sit here. I lie here. The only good news in all of my inactivity is my notice of how loose the cast has become. It happened with the last one, where the end of my two-week stay in "the red cast" had me with enough room to wiggle my entire foot, and the cast itself felt like an ill-fitted boot. It's a good sign, as it means the swelling is going down dramatically. "Have at thee, Charcot arthropathy! I am mightier than your worst symptoms." I'll be losing "the blue cast" next Wednesday, to be replaced with "the green cast," as suggested by my podiatrist...as opposed to "the hot pink cast," suggested by Becky.
It's nice to see everyone having a good time with my chronic conditions.
Meanwhile, my father is sick. He's finding himself in a very similar situation as myself, trapped inside a body that doesn't want to cooperate. His mobility is limited. He's in constant pain. He never wanted to get old and/or sickly. Somewhere in his mind, he would be in as perfect a state of health as is humanly possible until he fell over, dead of natural causes.
I feel as though I shouldn't be here. I should be in a car, driving just over the speed limit to get to him...to let him know that he has a son within driving distance who gives a damn. As opposed to the son who lives five miles away and can't spare any of his precious time to simply say hello. No, the only time Bary would call would be when he needs something. And since he knows our father doesn't have anything to give, (or simply doesn't want to give, in my brother's opinion), he doesn't even all, let alone visit. (Selfish little bastard!)
My desire to save the world becomes my greatest frustration in moments like these. I should be throwing on my tights and cape and flying off to wherever I'm needed, like my father's bedside. I should be there, sitting beside him, making it clear that I don't know how he feels, but that I understand some of the emotions behind how he feels.
And then, going back to my bastard of a brother, I keep praying that my father has had the presence of mind to exclude him from the will. It's not that I don't want more money. Dad's will could vanish in a puff of smoke and I wouldn't care all that much. The problem is that I don't want Barry to be "rewarded" in any way, knowing that he'll likely remain so selfish as to not give a penny toward my father's funeral. Stu and I will be coughing up whatever is needed to see my father's body laid to rest properly. Barry would ignore such a responsibility, making a claim that cardboard boxes in the nearest dump would suffice. (Yes, he's that level of jerk.)
There have also been thoughts of calling Stu. I want to know if he's prepared for our father's death. I mean, my father fell, split his head open, and broke his nose. These are not life-threatening things...if you're about a decade or two younger than 80. Because my father won't be dying of anything like a heart attack or a brain embolism. No, he'll die from something stupid, like an infection in his leg...or not waking from surgery because the fight will have been leeched out of him. Is Stu ready for this? Is he ready to play the roll of will executor? Will his childish temper still be in the way of doing that which is his job?
I feel like I should be doing something - ANYTHING - other than sitting here, waiting for news. I can't even pace my apartment, as I'm not really supposed to be walking on this cast at all. I'd get in my car and head to his bedside if I had a license...or a car...or money for the trip.
Despite all his somewhat large faults, I love my father. I wish there was some way for me to make things easier for him...and it's frustrating that I can't.