Put a Mirror Under My Nose

After 18 months, I am still having trouble with the death of my father. He was one of the great ones.

I know my dad went through a lot in his life. He was a prisoner of war, held in a slave camp for 6 months. His weight went down to 89lbs, he ended up losing his teeth, suffered from high blood pressure, as well as diabetes. But in my mind, it wasn’t his health that did him in; I believe he wanted to escape.

He loved my mom for 60 years, but we would laugh later as he would run away to our house. We would visit, and after her complaints, he would merely tell her to go to her room. Oh my gosh, now its me, “just please go to your room.”

I have raised two beautiful children, and went through it all: school, sports, boyfriends, girlfriends, sickness, weddings, and a grandchild. Nothing prepared me for this, Mom.

I am a plus size gal. I know I eat when I’m stressed and Mom has always been a pint-sized person, but she doesn’t understand that I take after my father’s side. All my life, weight has been an issue for my mother. Every story has started out with a person’s weight. “When I was young my sister was fat like you, all my friends were fat, they used to called me pee wee because I was so thin, I had to wear hand-me-downs because I was so small, I could wear everything, no one wore my clothes because they were so fat and I was petite.”

So I ate. I’m not going to blame my mom for my weight because I had choices: I could have purged, I could have run away, or I could have eaten her like the wolf who ate Little Red Riding Hood’s grandma. Yes, I had choices.

So the Saint and I moved in.

As not to disrupt Mom’s life, I didn’t change anything except for the couch and chairs in the den.  The couch looked nice, but like every Grandma’s couch, you sat in it and your butt got sucked in like quick sand. The chairs were two wooden rockers, which after a half hour, blood stopped circulating in your thighs from the chair pressing in above your knees. So I bought a couch and two cushioned chairs, according to Mom, the new furniture is too big for her, “you can two of me in one chair.”  I guess everyone else has to worry when they are in a chair that it doesn’t come up, stuck to their butt because, again, we are not petite people.

Nothing else has changed, the Saint and I haven’t brought our furniture or bed over, so we sleep in a queen-size.  We are used to a king!  When one of us turns over, so does the other one, and the bed is so small, I can turn over and switch the light on at the same time.

Sometimes, I’m so stressed, I lay on the couch and I just can’t move. On more than one occasion I have awoken to the Saint placing a mirror under my nose to see if I’m still alive, I’m just that tired.


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