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First of all, a very happy Thanksgiving to all the US f-listers!
And now on to the observations.
Those who have been following this journal do of course know that I haven't seen or spoken to my father for a long time (it's going on nine years), and that, at least from my own point of view, I've had very good reasons for acting that way. What you may also remember is my frequently expressed worry that my mother might be the first one to die -- mostly due to her own health problems, which have been compounded by incessantly playing the slave for my father -- which would leave me in a very awkward place.
Well, it seems that my rather reasonable expectations as to my father outliving my mother may have been wrong. My relationship, or rather non-relationship, with my father notwithstanding, I'm stating this fact without glee or sense of satisfaction, if with a certain relief. And it's by no means a sure thing, but recent talks with my mother and the family doctor seem to confirm that my father has completely given up on himself.
This is both strange and entirely plausible: my father used to be a physically active kind of person, who didn't have many other interests, no friends to speak of, and who found absolutely no joy in life. Therefore, having to rethink his life is seemingly impossible for him, and he'd prefer not to live at all. Whereas somebody like e.g. my mum would rather easily adapt to the kind of change made necessary by moving to a retirement home, as well as by the possibilities for physical activity being severely curtailed, he probably just feels that it's all over -- enjoying other things in life isn't a viable possibility, because 1) he's unable to enjoy, and 2) because there aren't any other things.
The possibility of his imminent death doesn't touch me emotionally; I feel sorry for him like I would for any suffering human being or creature, and I certainly wouldn't have wished that kind of death on him. As things stand now, he's gained 16kg since his fall down the stairs at the beginning of October, and it's not fat but water accumulated in the tissue and lungs. My mother told me yesterday that the broken arm is so swollen that the skin can't take the strain anymore. That's pretty horrible, and not something I'd wish on anybody.
In spite of issues past and present I'll of course go to Vienna if/when the doctor tells me that the end is near. He's had ample chance to make the first step ever since I walked out of his house, but that doesn't mean that I can't be the bigger person and offer him one last chance. If he takes it, ok, if he doesn't, his loss.
Should he really die in the near future, I'm going to take my mother to Skopje with me for a couple of months -- she needs to recover, maybe she also needs a bit of company, and I could make sure that she's getting what she needs, which includes TLC as well as proper meals and the amount of exercise she wants and needs. My flat is big enough for both of us to have our own space, which we both need, and if she wants to help Slavica with the household, she may do so to her heart's content, while I can be sure that Slavica will allow her neither to overexert herself nor to do any stunts involving balancing on ladders, chairs and the like. But she may paint, sew, read and whatever else she'd like to do, and if she fells like cooking, she can cook -- in short, she can do whatever she wants, whenever she wants, and enjoy complete freedom.
Who would've thought things might turn out this way...
And now on to the observations.
Those who have been following this journal do of course know that I haven't seen or spoken to my father for a long time (it's going on nine years), and that, at least from my own point of view, I've had very good reasons for acting that way. What you may also remember is my frequently expressed worry that my mother might be the first one to die -- mostly due to her own health problems, which have been compounded by incessantly playing the slave for my father -- which would leave me in a very awkward place.
Well, it seems that my rather reasonable expectations as to my father outliving my mother may have been wrong. My relationship, or rather non-relationship, with my father notwithstanding, I'm stating this fact without glee or sense of satisfaction, if with a certain relief. And it's by no means a sure thing, but recent talks with my mother and the family doctor seem to confirm that my father has completely given up on himself.
This is both strange and entirely plausible: my father used to be a physically active kind of person, who didn't have many other interests, no friends to speak of, and who found absolutely no joy in life. Therefore, having to rethink his life is seemingly impossible for him, and he'd prefer not to live at all. Whereas somebody like e.g. my mum would rather easily adapt to the kind of change made necessary by moving to a retirement home, as well as by the possibilities for physical activity being severely curtailed, he probably just feels that it's all over -- enjoying other things in life isn't a viable possibility, because 1) he's unable to enjoy, and 2) because there aren't any other things.
The possibility of his imminent death doesn't touch me emotionally; I feel sorry for him like I would for any suffering human being or creature, and I certainly wouldn't have wished that kind of death on him. As things stand now, he's gained 16kg since his fall down the stairs at the beginning of October, and it's not fat but water accumulated in the tissue and lungs. My mother told me yesterday that the broken arm is so swollen that the skin can't take the strain anymore. That's pretty horrible, and not something I'd wish on anybody.
In spite of issues past and present I'll of course go to Vienna if/when the doctor tells me that the end is near. He's had ample chance to make the first step ever since I walked out of his house, but that doesn't mean that I can't be the bigger person and offer him one last chance. If he takes it, ok, if he doesn't, his loss.
Should he really die in the near future, I'm going to take my mother to Skopje with me for a couple of months -- she needs to recover, maybe she also needs a bit of company, and I could make sure that she's getting what she needs, which includes TLC as well as proper meals and the amount of exercise she wants and needs. My flat is big enough for both of us to have our own space, which we both need, and if she wants to help Slavica with the household, she may do so to her heart's content, while I can be sure that Slavica will allow her neither to overexert herself nor to do any stunts involving balancing on ladders, chairs and the like. But she may paint, sew, read and whatever else she'd like to do, and if she fells like cooking, she can cook -- in short, she can do whatever she wants, whenever she wants, and enjoy complete freedom.
Who would've thought things might turn out this way...
