The Midwest Gawp-by

Late tomorrow night, the listening on the house my folks built in 1994 is supposed to go live. 3500 square feet, on a .4 acre lot, with incredible shade, a back deck that runs the length of the houses, full basement with 12 foot ceilings, as well as 2 2-car garages, it is a lot of house. 

 We were happy here, mostly. Certainly lived a lot of life, moving between the two. The happiest I ever was living on Frontenac was actually living with my grandmother, after Jinx had died. Her life was just so much calmer than my parents', required more of my intellect and less survival skills. 

 She expected much of me but it was all with in the realms of achievable. It will come at the end of a long-ish day, and the first night's sleep I've had in the house since arriving 22 July.

  I'm typing this from the VA Hospital where they admitted my dad today. I don't know what it is about Military hospitals, but I love 'em. I love the VA. I love the sense of comraderie, shared history, and sense of purpose. I wouldn't call it 'community' but there is a sense of family that I don't get when I walk into a civilian hospital. 

 

 Today, movers came to ship stuff to the UK and to set up my dad's new accommodation. In between, we were treated to a Midwest Drop-by. When done properly, the Drop-by is a delightful surprise. It may involve unexpected gifts, hugs, shared memories, or just a friendly chat. Sometimes pie or cake. Today's Drop-by is what I call 'The Gawp-by.' 

  

  The Gawp-by is defined by being singularly driven by a desire to This woman's jaw couldn't have been and more bass-like if she were on the end of a hood. 'The last time I talked to your dad was when Aunt M died.' 'So...4 years...5 years?' 'We're just shocked...'

  'Well, sure,' I say, continuing to pack the picnic hamper I am preparing to take down for today's Chemo. 'I mean, how can you not be when you don't talk to someone in 5 years.' Whilst she is giving me her 'I'm stunned! How could this happen?' spiel, she doesn't even introduce her great grandchild, just leaves him to free-range around the house, whilst she took stock. Or maybe an inventory. 

 

 'I'm just an old lady (spoiler alert: she isn't that old and I've seen her set a VCR to record. She is VERY tan, though. Does that impact ) so I don't do the Facebook thing but my sister K...' 'Did you call one of the boys (my uncles: 69 and 67 respectively)?' 'Well...I don't know...there are just so many William Jenkinses.' 

  

  And M? Because his number hasn't changed in 40 years.' 'Well...He's just...I don't want to talk to him because he's always been unpleasant.' I arch a brow. The uncle of which she speaks is my favourite: deadpan, honest, cutting but with a gooey depth. He has always had my back.

 'How did this happen, Rachel?? I mean...I'm just...'

 'Shocked? Yes, we've established that. Which bit, J? The bit where he fell, discovered he had terminal cancer and the stomach aneurysm? The bit where my brother took a deal with the US Attorney's office? Which bit specifically is difficult for you to wrap your head around? The bit where I have been here for a month sorting things out and this is the first time you've bothered to stop by, even though I JUST said to you we're on our way out of the door to go down to the VA. Which bit?' I don't buy into the fake internet unsaviness. And I don't buy her concern. Her parting shot when she leaves is 'I came by to offer my help.'

 'Again, J...I've been here a month. I've got a team of people who are helping. I don't think your kind of help is what is needed here.'

 See, here's the thing: it is not difficult to track me down on the internet. Even my phone numbers and bad poetry are there. What is difficult is when people I haven't spoken to in 15 years decide to drop by and tell me how 'shocked' and 'horrified' they are about hearing about my dad.

 i then proceed to tell me that although they could call my uncle but that he's always been unpleasant and they thought it would just be easier to come here and tell me what a loser my brother is, get outraged when It frog-march them to the front door. 

 Especially, when I know the ins and outs of their own personal and family's struggles with addictions to drugs and alcohol. But not once have I dreamed about stopping by to make her feel small. My brother isn't a loser. He is an addict with complex issues that I hope he gets time and help to address in prison (unlikely, but I've read Papillion).

  The situation with my dad may be influenced by his behaviour and choices but this decision to turn in on himself? This is on my dad. On this part of the journey, I'm just the clean up crew, packing up the lives, whilst trying to live my own. I don't need people who come in telling me 'its too hard to find so and so on my phone,' when said person drove right past their house and their family business to get to my parents' house.

 I don't hate anyone, even when I probably should.. I don't have that kind of time or depth. I just don't need impromptu visits by people who have never really been interested in what is happening our worlds expect when it is terrible and then come to lay their grief on my doorstep to make THEM feel better.

  Was I thrilled about the situation here? Have I shaken my fists and snot-cried? Did I take a baseball bat to strategic pieces of ruined furniture. Of course I do and have done. You want to help? Take a load of stuff to the Good Will, mow part of the yard. You want to visit my dad? By all means. You won't offend me. But I'd do it sooner than later.