Mom and the House of Fun

I'm afraid my Mom might be going crazy. This strikes me as unoriginal, as I realize how many conversations, the world over, begin with this sentence.

To preface: My Mom isn't a freaked out wing nut who wears a tin foil hat, nor does she create the sensation that one feels when they open up the snakes in a can prank for the first time, and never once have I been awoken by a manic woman, enraged and freaking out in the garden while in a shaky voice, demand that I bring her the axe. If that sounds like you're Mom, I'm sorry. But I'm not talking about your Mother. I'm talking about mine.

Mom's been going through some seriously tough times. Just to name a few things, in the last few years, she's gone up against breast cancer, lost her house of 25 years, her dog/best friend died when a dresser drawer, that was being cleaned, tipped over on him (total freak accident), she lost her mother, her rheumatoid arthritis is still as predictable as a raging alcoholic and her husband is permanently disabled and partially disassociated from all the medication that he has to be on. Good times, right? Well now that I've created the sundae, let's put the cherry on top.

The cherry: agreeing to live with her recently widowed and mostly immobile and disabled father (this totally breaks my heart, which, at this point, is pulpy and bloody, but still beating), her sister, who cannot be present unless there are party streamers and alcohol involved, her sister's 3 felonious, gang affiliated, adult children, who use the place as a crash pad, showering, eating the food (what my mom and grandfather have purchased) until it's gone and giving the house the honor of being at the top of the list for police raids. In all fairness, the eldest of the 3 does help out a lot and is making an effort to better himself, but he still looks like an extra for a Cheech and Chong movie.

That's not all-then there's her sister's youngest teenage son, a video game addicted, awkward, sometimes mouthy to his grandfather, kid who has been taught by his father to shoot small animals and clean the skulls sparkly to keep as a trophy (this mixed with latent bed wetting and having friends half his age has made me wonder if he's destined to be a Criminal Minds episode.) Writing this can very likely screw me considering that I have other family members who, as of late, have shown an aptitude for being full of vengeance and out for my blood, but that's another story. If they want to get me, now there's a chance (luckily this group aren't known to be big readers).

Okay, where was I, oh yes, then there's my transient, heroin addict uncle who has officially lost his marbles from the combination of drugs, jail, streets, clipped bits of knowledge of God, the Aztecs and space aliens. He recently stole two 3 foot pot plants from someone's yard, and used his bicycle as the get away vehicle, and made it as far as "the house" a good sized ride- to stash in the garage-a ridiculous visual. Yep, that's my uncle. He doesn't live there, but he likes to make cameo appearances to stash stolen property, pick fights with my 79 year-old grieving grandfather and just visit. This was the same guy who had once been scouted as a 15 year-old in the 70s for striking out (south paw) 20 out of 21 batters in a game. All of his baseball games were like this. This, kids, is what drugs do.

There's also the other sister, whose drug use, she vehemently denies, even though she's quickly approaching easy entry to a Keith Richards family reunion. All she needs now is a well earned tic.
Her behavior is reminiscent of Mel Gibson's anti-semitic episode mingled with the philosophy of Veruca Salt. She likes to sleep in her van right outside sometimes. In fact, all of her tweeker induced junk collecting created a shit storm of bed bugs in "the house" that is now being remedied, hopefully. That is if my Mom's functioning and employed sister can take the time out of her perpetual conga line.

My Dad lives there. He is a product of a chain of Frankensteinian doctors who have patched him up, then repatched, cut, fused, defused, rodded, squeezed, broke, splintered, welded, flame broiled and riddled his body with so much scar tissue that the Chili Peppers may need to revise their song if they knew about him. This, all from the time he was 27 years old with still more to come. He's a mess. From the knees down, his legs are black, from the neck up, he is on the kind of meds that would kill Kate Moss and her entourage. The results: he's a little gabby, spacey, frustrated, in pain, done, convinced that someone's put the whammies on him and every other thing that you could imagine would go through someone's head after 26 years as a science project. It's a sin, really because he's a good guy-the guy you want on your side, and once he has your back, he'll never leave you.

My 16 year-old sister is enduring with good spirits. But that's just her-water off a duck. She's the type that if something gets in her way, she'll go around, over or under it without even mussing a thread on her jeans. Obstacles simply don't exist for her. She just plain doesn't see them. Sometimes she gets annoyed, but mostly, she'll shrug it off and just do her own thing. My sister's cool as hell, and I wish I had been given these attributes in the innate way that she has. If it were me in this situation, I would've run away. If it was my brother, he would've burned the house down then gotten on an airplane, all the while claiming political asylum, but her, she just looks around and smiles, amused. I keep telling her to take notes. She's got a best seller on her hands. She, along with Mom and Dad have a ridiculously happy dog with the vocabulary of Scooby Doo and two pampered, intelligent cats who know the score. Hence, you don't see them ever. The dog is very closely watched just in case there's a psychopath visiting that day.

Finally, there's my imprisoned cousin's son. (This cousin's the 3rd child of my Mom's sister-a regular Bonnie Parker with a red rag, and the reason for the last raid). Her kid is cute as hell and not quite 5. He's precocious, hyper, super intelligent, charismatic and independent-he does his own laundry and aspires to be a performer like Bruno Mars-I want that for him, too. He's definitely got the personality for it, and it just might save him. We would all like to avoid having him be a real life character from a movie like American Me. It's a scary world out there. I want to see that awesome kid win life over with a song and dance.

And did I mention that there's a ghost in "the house"? I'm not kidding. He's there, too, and has been seen and likes to occasionally throw a thing or two. Dick.

This is the cast. The funny part is you would never know it. As banged up and strange and twisted they can be, they are the most charismatic, fun people to have around-true descendants of my grandparents in that we are great to be around. A guy went up to my brother at my cousin's wedding and said, "Your family really has it together." Yeah, we all laughed hysterically about that.

My Mom has always referred to my grandfather as the head vampire, and that he is. We are all disciples of his mad cap and vivid humor. No one escapes without at least one good laugh, but as much as I love him, he's a pain in the ass. Even before he had a hard time moving about, he insists on being waited on hand and foot. There's no rest for Mom. Sometimes the lady who cooks and tidies up comes over-thrice a week, in fact-but she's all about cooking with lard and trying to pawn off her daughters to one of my cousins or worse, my brother. I get it. We're all opportunists in our own way, but the days of being pimpy with your children went out with Laura Ingalls Wilder.

Lately, one of my cousins has tried to turn Gramps onto facebook. I've already made a mental note to kick him hard next time I see him. Christ! That's all I need. And how can you deny a friend request from your loving Grandfather? You can't!

So back to my original statement, my Mom might be going crazy. Do I really need to explain any further as to why? She seems to be the lucid one living there, next to Gramps and lucidity isn't recommended in order to live here. Her finances are what keep her shackled here-a regular Hotel California-"you can check out any time you like but you can never leave".

I'm waiting for her famous Scorpio driven temper to blow the lid right off the top of her head followed by confetti and the sound of fire engines and bicycle horns also tumbling out of her skull, now heard not just by her, but by all.

I don't crave the idea of Mom losing it, far from it. I've tried to counsel her during our phone calls. She's usually on the ledge, and once, I could talk her down, but now, she doesn't want to come down. She's familiar up there. She may even take up a hobby of jacks, juggling, the yo-yo or the hula hoop to bide her time while she lives there, and I can't say I blame her.

Truly, this is a test, the journey that she needs to take, but it doesn't make it right. Then when you consider the Law of Attraction-the magnets that we are, and Mom trying to stay positive and happy while this deranged circus continues, tirelessly. How can she do it so that the good stuff will start drifting her way? When you're sick, tired, grieving and surrounded by those who, were this the 40s, would have been the chosen ones for lobotomy and lifelong residence in an asylum. These people are a Pink Floyd song. Shine on You Crazy Diamonds! She's like Frances Farmer-deemed insane but merely her own strong willed person, yet forced to live in "the house of fun". How can I preach to her to turn that frown upside down and ignore those goofy bastards? How can I tell her to not let it get to her when it would even possibly "get" to the Dalai Lama? She's just got to rise above it though. When faced with the harshest of circumstance, we have to find a way, any way to let in the light. I need her to do that. I don't want an insane Mom. I just don't. I'd like to take her to Paris someday and I couldn't do it if she ate her lipstick and wore her underwear outside her pants. The only thing I can do is stand by with a metaphorical defibrillator, and occasionally jolt her while keeping her on this side of the rainbow. I need my Mom's magnet to radiate happiness, health, good fortune, and all around chirpy positivity. It's tough because, in a way, she's been given the ruby red slippers, but knows that if she clicks her heels together, she'll end up...home...it makes me want to tear my clothes while I run screaming. May my Mother's Twilight Zone episode end, and soon begin with an awesome rendition of something up, like a Gene Kelly flick, for her sake. God, I know you're listening, send in the troops, man down! Man down! It's time.