Just Cyd.

I don't recall ever truly wanting it. Not really. It's just what was expected of me, an AFAB child born and raised Methodist in the 1970s midwest: get married and have babies. Careers were schoolteacher or nurse, if I dared to want a career, otherwise i'd be relegated to Temp Worker like my mom. but first and foremost I was supposed to be wife and mother.

It's sort of a shock that I didn't end up pregnant, the wildly ADD but also highly unobservant and oblivious child that I was. No, that's not quite right. Oh, I was (and still am) wildly ADD, and can be oblivious to things that others can spot from space, but it's not true that I didn't end up pregnant. I did - twice - in my early 20s. it's just that neither of them stuck. The first one was a true accident, a broken condom somewhere in the midst of that crazy wild night, him freaking out, but diving right back into the fray with what must've been an industrial size box of condoms, until it was time for me to sneak out and rush home lest either set of parents catch us. I was 20, he was 24, but we both lived at home. The second time was not an accident, but also not consensual. We'd just started dating, he dropped by my place on our days off, and despite my protests got what he came for. Sometimes it's easier to just shut up and take than to try to fight off someone who takes pleasure in being able to physically overpower you. I was 23, he was 34.

Both instances ended pretty much the same way: a few weeks of worry, then a few more of denial (hey, 7-8 months between cycles was normal at this point, so why worry?). Around week 7, the sickness would hit, that malaise I'd never encountered before (until I did the second time), followed quickly by the violent cramping and passing chunks the likes of which I'd never encountered (again, until the second time). I bled heavier and my abdomen seized harder than I thought possible, knocking me to the floor and making driving a scary prospect. I knew heavy bleeding and cramps, and this was well beyond that. Both times, I endured it alone, never telling a soul.

One thing I did want, or at least enjoyed, was babysitting, and the cash that came with it. by age 12 I was working the circuit of moms at our church, and was one of the more in-demand sitters. about $2/hr was the going rate, I believe, and I was pulling in some nice coin. ADD-me spent it as fast as I made it, because the cursory "you need to save money" didn't even register to my ADD-brain, and there was never any talk of planning for the future, or college (which never came up, until it did, my senior year, when it was suddenly An Issue), or any sort of financial information that might have benefitted me as I slid into my teen years. if there had been any sort of talk on the subject, it would have been a lecture in a language I could not comprehend. Imagine my surprise when my younger brother had the cash to buy a car at 15, long before I did.

I was a good babysitter because I enjoyed playing with the kids and their toys, I wasn't mean, and I loved babies. It was easy! Play with the kids, maybe watch a movie, feed them dinner without having to cook it (if they hadn't already been fed), then tuck everyone into bed and cruise the cable TV and maybe give a baby a bottle. Head home with cash in pocket, easy peasy. By high school, I figured I'd marry my boyfriend and we'd have half a dozen kids. Except we weren't exactly a great couple, and he wanted to go to college. And he did. There were a couple other guys, but never for very long. College snuck up on me and all of a sudden it was mandatory that I attend something I had no means to pay for, nor any preparation for. I honestly think the first conversation about college came up when my dad said that I was required to go, get a degree, and then I could do what I wanted to do. the only prior attempt to address the topic was when I declared a few years earlier that I wanted to attend Antioch in Yellow Springs, and was told in no certain terms that I would NOT be attending that "Damn Hippie School" by my mother.

Heading into my third year of floundering at community college, working multiple part time jobs, and registering for classes only to drop them the week classes started and lie about it to my parents, something needed to give. What I really needed was help, so much help. Mental, physical, financial - I was a wreck in every possible way. Instead, it was suggested that maybe I look into getting outta Dodge. I'd wanted to be a nanny right out of high school, but mom wouldn't allow it. One day, in early 1993, mom spread out newspapers on the kitchen counter to re-pot some plants, and there it was, like a beacon in the dark of my life: an ad for a nanny placement agency. We laughed at the coincidence, put the ad aside, and after the plants were done, I gave them a call.

I was matched with five families, interviewed with two or three, and the M family in New Jersey offered me a job. Three kids, two boys and a girl, 3, 6, and 8, with the middle child having Cerebral Palsy. We negotiated my start to fall mid-June so I could finish up the semester at school, then we packed me up and drove me to a suburb of Philadelphia. I still don't know how I pulled that off. Hot Mess doesn't even begin to describe me. but the kids loved me, the parents loved me, and I was as involved as I could be and did everything I could to be the best pseudo-parent there was. Reality hit about 3 months in when the parents left the country and I got sick. OK, they drove to Toronto for five days, but still, technically out of the country. And it hit me that I could not leave the house without dragging all three children with me. Like, NOT AT ALL. We lived behind a shopping center that had a drug store and a grocery store that we could walk to. Just need to pop out for tissues or something? well, kids, get your shoes on, because you're all coming with. That was a huge eye opener. Life altering, even. The youngest had just turned 4, so all three were potty trained and could dress and feed themselves, although I still needed to supervise bath time and cook the food (or at least supervise selections), so no diapers or bottles or round-the-clock hands-on care, but ... Yeah. I also only knew one of the neighbors, the childless couple next door. I hadn't yet really got into the circle of parents at pickup yet, so I had no one I could call on had I been truly sick (like when I got the flu that winter, and had another parent fetch the kids from school).

because through this, at the ripe old age of 21, I'm getting that noise that I need to provide my parents with grandchildren. Pretty sure it was just dad making that noise, but still. The nanny thing lasted 14 months, then I moved down to the shore and in with a cousin while I tried to figure out my place in the world on minimum wage, and seeing her muddle through single-parenthood, it was clearer than ever that even if desperately wanted a baby, I could not do it on my own. Childcare would eat up any paycheck I had, and as I had yet to meet a man worthy of partnering with (including that 11-years-older gem), everywhere I turned I was told my life would be over if I didn't get married and start having babies. So when my apartment that required 3/4 of my paycheck to afford it became too much, I moved myself in with that 11-years-older asshole and figured I'd make it work somehow. The tl;dr there is that I did not, in fact, make it work in the end, but escaped with my parents help while he was at work. Yes, the very same parents who took every opportunity available to remind me of my duty to provide them with grandchildren and how I'd be an old maid like my aunt if I didn't get busy, get married, and get pregnant, not only changed their tune a bit, they drove back to coastal NJ from Ohio on 12 hours notice to collect me.

You see, all the while I'm being hounded about marriage and babies, back home, my younger brother and his girlfriend were apparently picking up the slack. Christmas 1995, as they drove home from a surprise visit to me, my brother announced that his barely 18 yr old girlfriend was pregnant. Who's laughing now, eh? I don't think it ever occurred to them that my younger brother would be the one to give them grandchildren, at least not before I would! He'd dated a girl the summer I moved east who had a baby, and lived with them all for a while, so mom had the grandma bug from the months baby C lived there. Now, heading into summer of 1996, mom was suddenly too young to be a grandma at 49. she was having none of it! oh, sure, she went nuts getting yard sale clothing and toys for the baby boy and made sure the nursery in their apartment was all set to go, but she was NOT going to be called "grandma"! But then, mid-July 1996, D was born, and at the age of 49, mom became grandma, and at two weeks before his 23rd birthday, my brother became a father. We arrived home from my frantic escape from NJ at dusk the day of D's birth, having stopped several times a long the drive to check in on them. We appealed to the hospital, and they allowed us to stop in that night to meet the new baby. Baby D opened his eyes and turned his head when he heard grandma's voice as we entered the room, and that's all it took to convince her that being Grandma was going to be fine.

The flurry of excitement of me moving home and the new baby took all pressure off me to spawn, at least for a while. Babies become toddlers, and grandparents get greedy, and when the still-single daughter isn't' showing any signs of dating anyone, what are parents to do? The correct answer is MIND THEIR OWN DAMN BUSINESS along with MAYBE NOTICE THE STRUGGLES AND HELP HER GET THE HELP SHE NEEDS but no, they were back on the baby bullshit. my brother eventually married his son's mother, briefly, and then they split, and I regret not doing more to ensure D had a more stable life during those years before his dad got custody. The truth is, I was barely holding my own head above water, so I couldn't see how I could possibly scrape together the wherewithal to give D what he needed.

Then mom got sick, and died. At some point after that, I briefly thought that if I can't find someone to marry, maybe I could just adopt on my own? I must've been having a REALLY good day that day. I started to look into it, and realized the expense and scrutiny I'd have to go through, plus moving to a place with two bedrooms, and then one mild inconvenience later I had abandoned the whole thing without ever having done more than think "what if?" I did some babysitting in there, too, but it was more out of financial necessity than anything else. I much preferred the couple whose son went to bed early, and paid handsomely the later they stayed out and the more than drank. This was shortly before I was diagnosed with Sjogren's, when I was having all manner of physical health issues on top of the still-there-and-never-addressed-and-growing mental health issues. I eventually got a diagnosis, and was surprised to learn that congenital cardiac defects can occur in babies born to women with Sjogren's. Hrm, that's not cool. Oh, and pregnancy can exacerbate symptoms like nobody's business. Strike 2. Instead, I opted to improve my quality of life by buying a condo; first floor bathroom has been life-altering, as was losing my job not long after closing.

in the last 22 years, I have managed to get a job and stick it out (21 years officially this month!), acquire a handful more chronic illnesses, and not one but two cancer scares that resulted in a hysterectomy at 38 years, 7 months and 4 days. but who's counting?

in that same time, my brother remarried and two more kids, all boys; Dad married J2's mom less than a year after mom died; and D got married and they have three kids, also all boys. All told I have eight niblings (nieces and nephews) and three great-nephews. my brother and all three stepbrothers are married and have kids, leaving me, the sole daughter and middle child, unmarried and childless.

I'm lucky to finally be at an age where strangers can't just badger me about not having spawned. at 38, I could have potentially had time left, but now, I'm well into the years where it's no longer wise to speculate. I hope it's the same for dating. The current object of my obsession is about 8 years older than me, and while the physical health has been addressed (but not improved), the mental and financial ends are still a hot mess, and I don't wish that on anyone. I guess these things have a way of working themselves out after all?

those were the words that escaped under my breath walking out of dad's house tonight, trying hard to NOT slam the door: "It's not worth it."

any of it; all of it. something something diminishing returns.

When I showed up and shimmied out of my hoodie, dad was confused: he thought I drove all the way up there just to get two industrial-sized boxes of granola bars and then head out. "No, you have drawstrings that need unknotted?" I asked, but he can't hear and certainly doesn't listen, so it took three tries and some snark on his end for him to remember what he'd asked me to do (and then threw a fit when I didn't drop everything to do it on Sunday). Three pants with tightly-knotted drawstrings. I brought dpns to use, and they did eventually serve to pry apart the flannel pulled too taut and cemented into place with maude-knows-what. I jokingly said they could buy me dinner, and next thing I know we're headed to my car and to the Mexican place in an old Pizza Hut building. He can barely get his legs into my car, and now he can't make the arms and hands work to buckle himself in. That, of course, led to a litany of wrongs in cars, because how dare he ever say anything nice about anything. and no, he doesn't want your feedback or opinion, he just wants to bitch. He's got an audience now, one that isn't hard of hearing, and by golly, he's got A LIST.

I got lucky at dinner, that I was across from Diane, not him. He's losing his social skills at an alarming rate, as one does when they're low-vision, hard of hearing, and isolated. he two-fists his food like a toddler starved, and it is NOT pretty. He's demanding. hogs the salsa, then demands I summon more, rather than just asking for it with his order. he's already making a bunch of substitutions on his dinner.

the drive home is more of the same. epic one-up-manship. I comment on gas prices. he mentions as he always does, that they get $1/gal off at Kroger. I get $0.20/gal off at Speedway as an employee. that last part doesn't matter, because HE gets $1/gal off at Kroger... I'm driving, so I resist the urge to turn to him and scream that NO ONE CARES, because you have to shop at Kroger to get that, and I don't grocery shop three times a week for things I don't need.

I have to run inside to get the granola bars and my drink, or I'd cut and run so fast the neighbors would surely pop their heads out at the commotion. Now that I'm home, I'm low-level angry, the kind that paralyzes me and prevents any sort of useful action. but it's the same anger that has me wanting to load up my car, drive southeast, and never look back.

it's just not worth it.

Dad had a stroke in early December. "very small" are the adjectives the doctors are using. only minorly affected his left side, but it took two ER visits with overnight stays over two weeks to figure out WTF was wrong. the initial high fever/no infection whatsoever may have been a warning sign missed.

a week-plus in hospital had him discharged to inpatient rehab, or Stroke Boot Camp. discharged from that to home with OT, PT, and home health visits.

through all of this, his attitude is that (1) he will fully recover to quite possibly better than pre-stroke abilities and (2) his eventual death is optional.

please bear with me while I scream into the void.

This week saw him on the phone with the VA, requesting additional OT/PT, mad that he's not fully recovered. oh, denial is deep enough to drown in in that house. At least he's using his rolling walker to get around.

Meanwhile, stepmom has breast cancer. but, at 80, that's hardly a thing to freak out over. it's stage 1, fully contained lumps like marbles that will be easy to evict. the docs are still working out what is where, so no surgery scheduled yet, but she's signed up with all the things for post-op assistance. and yet.

reluctantly spent the night up there on Tuesday, having lost power while single digits outside. while dad took his 8:30pm nap, I mentioned that they might want to consider getting a countertop microwave. Dad cannot lift either arm over his head, and according to her, at least, he can manage to get his coffee mug in/out of the over-stove microwave "OK." if it requires two hands, he can't do it.

post op, even if it's just lop-it-offa-me, not full removal of breast(s), there will be pain, lifting restrictions, and more. Denial came sweeping through the room like hurricane Helene, and the sour look on her face told me that she was NOT having any of this nonsense of having to make accommodations for her own recovery. Far too distasteful. even as a temporary measure. one agency she signed up with does meals. there will be microwaving of food, no doubt. why not suck it up and reduce the risk of harm to her or dad, even if temporarily?

I need to pass this on to The Boys. The Boys being her 3 sons, but also my brother. The Boys are all a distance away, while my brother and I are local. The Middle Child and only girl is going to end up being The Responsible Adult. Again.

Dad's stroke brought up some other unpleasant-to-the-parents stuff, like do they have DNRs or Healthcare POAs or what? They do, recently re-written. "oh, we have copies for you kids, but we just haven't given them to you yet," I am told, while my dad's left side is uncooperative. I get my hands on the copies of dad's DNR and POA stuff, but stepmom declines to provide copies of hers, even to mail to her kids. her kids promptly lose their shit that docs are being withheld. No, asshole, your mother can't be bothered. In all of this, the wills cannot be located (or parted with. copies, that is. copies made specifically so all five of us have them). I have the attorney's name and if push comes to shove, that'll get the ball rolling.

the mere mention of separating dad from his stuff sends him into a toddler panic-tantrum. I not-so-gently remind him that we can do this now, or we trash everything after he dies. Nearly 25 years in and he still can't part with what's essentially trash from mom. Very Expensive Professionals are going to be required to do this while he's alive.

the "regular" calls with middle stepbrothers have happened exactly once. I'll poke him this weekend, and share the microwave incident.

all through this, it's clear that everyone expects me to run this shitshow. Only girl. not and never married. no kids. 1 mile closer than my brother, and clearly no responsibilities. my thoughts on this all get increasingly uncharitable as time passes. I dig my heels in, mentally packing up my car to head southeast and never look back.

Two weeks ago, Rover took on a full-grown gator and lost. Where? why, on the highway on the drive home from work, of course! I'm still salty about that.

To add insult to injury, I am once again in the thick of dad-drama. The first couple days I borrowed Grace's Soul (Rover's twin), and returned it on Sunday so Danielle would have it during her visit. Dad said I could borrow their Equinox, since they don't really use it. Picked it up that Sunday. All last week, it sat at my house as I was WFH. Thursday I drove up to get a few things out of Rover, stopped by to see the parental units, and we went to dinner for dad's pre-birthday. in addition to the bday nonsense, he started making noise about needing the car back to get some things fixed.

Mind you, they'd just spent a week in FL. Pretty sure dad is NOT allowed to drive (or only under VERY special circumstances - macular degeneration an all that. but now, heading into the week I need to be in the office, it's suddenly URGENT that this get taken care of. By the end of the Official Birthday Dinner on Sunday, he was insufferable.

Monday I finally got through to Enterprise, and got my rental set up for Wednesday. messaged the family chat to ask for assistance with this. Doug said he could do it, as he'd be the one working on the car. Dad gets passive-aggressive about it and doubles-down for good measure. Today Doug tells me he can't, because one of the kids has a doctor appt tomorrow at 3. He said dad would pick it up. again. FML.

Texted dad to get the scoop (DO NOT want to talk). no reply. he's going to be a turd up until the bitter end, I just know it.

I can't decide what's worse: that I'm shocked this is happening, or that I'm upset by it. When will I learn?!?!?!