Tsuris anyone?

My father died on the 19th of July. Apparently, he had not been well for some time. I didn’t know this because my parents had stopped communicating with me about 12 or 13 years ago. They chose to have nothing to do with me and had never met my children. They were also not in touch with my sister or my brother and had cut us all off from my extended family when we were children for unknown reasons. Needless to say, it was a shock to learn that at 69 years old, my father was gone. And I never got to tell him exactly what I thought of him.

I thought about not posting anything about the father I had actually lost years ago. I didn’t want to write anything I’d regret later, and I didn’t want to be a downer. This blog has always been a place of entertainment and happiness, and I really didn’t want to throw you this curve ball. Then again, it seemed wrong not to say something. I mean, when a parent dies, that’s kind of significant, I suppose. And, we’re close, aren’t we? I might not tell you every time I fill the gas tank, but you know an awful lot about me. The weird bit is that I don’t know anything about you – unless you’re a friend or family member, of course. So, when I set up this blog to bring a little joy into anonymous people’s lives, I purposefully decided to keep most of the kvetching and drama out. I wasn’t looking to make BFFs through the blog though I did collect a few treasured souls along the way.

There is so much to tell you about my mother, the funeral, the shiva and my magnificent extended family that picked up the pieces and put them back together-picking up where my parents left off. But this is not the time and perhaps not the place. It’ll be a phenomenal book eventually about my absurd family--one day when my mother is gone.

I waited to write because I didn’t want to be bitter or morose, and I wasn’t looking to collect a string of ((hugs)). I’m not good with comfort-online or in person. I waited to share the news because I just didn’t know how to do it without exploding chunks on to the page and leaving you sitting in front of your screen covered in muck and wondering what the hell you were supposed to do with it. And I waited because the mere thought of trying to write any of it down--even an abridged version--exhausted me.

And then, Gabriella saved me from blog-death.

Thursday night, Gabriella came home from work limping on one foot and in excruciating pain. She had no recollection of stumbling or twisting her foot and she couldn’t figure out what had happened. She threw herself on the sofa and refused to move. It had been a week and a day since the funeral. Gabriella had been running the house and keeping the kids out of my hair. Our dear friends had been visiting; bringing food and listening to me describe every twisted detail of the weekend until I was too tired to speak. I had done nothing but sit and talk and cry every now and then. A week after the funeral, Gabriella was incapacitated, and it was my turn to play care-giver.

When she finally emerged from the doctor’s office the next morning, she delivered the prognosis that has kept me well distracted from my own tsuris ever since.

Gabriella: The doctor thinks it’s gout.

Deborah: What?!? snickering

G: It’s not funny. It’s very painful.

D: I know. I’m sorry, but…GOUT? HA! Isn’t that some sort of medieval thing? I mean, I know you’re old, but I’m pretty sure we were born in the same century...ohmygod, this is too funny.

G: Apparently, it’s still around, and it’s not funny. The doctor asked me if there had been a change in my diet or lifestyle recently, and I told her there was a death in the family.

D: We certainly have been self-medicating with food and drink this past week.

G: Yeah, but it’s really a build up uric acid over a long period of time. Maybe our diet this week put me over the edge.

D: I’ve never made it with a girl with gout.

G: And you never will. I’m supposed to go pick up some meds now that will hopefully do the trick.

I pulled the car around to the front of the doctor’s office where there were fewer steps. There was a 80 something year old, white-haired woman in a bright pink, floral house dress leaning over her walker on one side a telephone pole and Gabriella propped against the other side both waiting for a ride. I wondered which one would be more of a liability. In the end, I chose to pick up Gabriella.

G: You are not to tell anyone about this!

D: What?!? You can’t be serious! You’ve got GOUT! I can’t possibly keep this to myself!

G: Deborah! You are not allowed to tell anyone.

Can you see where this is going?

D: But, Gabriella, my dad died! I’m bereft!! It’s like a gift sent to me from the heavens.

G: This gift is painful and embarrassing. Do you know anyone who suffered from gout who wasn’t somebody’s grandfather?!?

D: What are you doing?

G: I’m sending a text.

D: You just told someone that you have gout, didn’t you? Gabriella? Didn’t you?!? That’s it! I’m not holding back.

G: Alright. If you must, but you can only refer to it as its medical name.

D: Which is?

G: Podagra.

D: Shyeah, that's exactly what I'll call it.

I drove to the pharmacy where I collected the meds. “Take one tablet every 2 hours until pain subsides or until diarrhea.” More laughter and clouds parting. A blog was imminent. Gabriella’s on both feet now and off the meds. She’s drinking lots of water to flush out that nasty acid, and we’re both up for a bit of detox.

Thank you my dear sweet Gabriella for allowing me to poke fun at your pain so that I could find my way out of mine. I love you so much my heart hurts. Of course, it might be the mitral valve prolapse, but it’s definitely not podagra.