"The only means which is granted us to express our contempt for life is to accept it." Jacques Rigaut
I wasn't there when my house burned down. I was in Toledo, Ohio, trying to get my mother into a mental hospital. She hadn't left her bed for a month, and had some pretty nasty bed sores. My older brother who lives with her and does nothing for a living finally called me and told me he didn't know what to do with her. So I go to Toledo and call around and while I'm doing that my house burns down. In the middle of the night. Who knows, I might not have gotten out alive. My cat survived, it went out the cat door and hunkered down in the backyard to watch.
Meanwhile, my mother is saying the craziest things, Hitler's legs are in the closet, and she doesn't even recognize me half the time. She's taking forty valium a day and there are prescription bottles all over the place, on the tables by the bed, under the bed, in the bed, under her pillow. She has always been the nervous sort.
Meanwhile my brother is taking almost as many valium as she is, which explains his colossal uselessness when it comees to handling the practical side of anything. He sits in front of the television, watching cooking shows and reruns of Mr. Ed. So I've got to try to talk him into a rehab, which is so much wasted breath, the two of them have been doctor shopping and ordering valium via online pharmacies and the house is like a pill factory.
I finally get my mom into a regular hospital, where hopefully they'll begin to detox her and treat the bed sores. My brother is relieved she's out of the house because her craziness was beginning to bum him out. The yard is a mess, the house is a sty, there are twelve count them twelve empty pizza boxes stacked on an easy chair in the living room. My whole family is crazy. I'm crazy. I stay in Toledo an extra two days, to handle chores and clean up a little, despite the fact that I've got to get home to handle my wife's funeral arrangements.