Why is school so stressful??

I spent a large portion of time today, convincing a sixteen year old that his life would not end if he failed his AP physics midterm. That, even if it tanked his GPA, his life would still, somehow, be worth living. We talked about a lot of things - his (most likely situational) depression and how he doesn't think it's capital D Depression (and No, Thank You: He Would Not Like To Talk To Anyone About It, Auntie!); the fact that group projects have always, and will always, suuuuck; the fact that he puts all these roadblocks and excuses up in his own way, and makes it seem like things are impossible to accomplish, when they are not; the idea that he will be taking a much less stressful course load as a senior next year, and why can't it be senior year already; his belief that having driving lessons curtailed as a consequence to poor behavior is 'totally unfair', while I think it is 'maximum effort', and hopefully, never necessary. So Many Things.  Hours worth of things. 

And I never felt like I knew what the hell I was talking about. 

I swear to you, I wanted to Google a million things while we were sitting there - building self confidence in teenagers, how to tell if a teenage boy is Capital D Depressed; what do colleges take into account beside your GPA, and on and on.  I didn't, because texting while you're talking is considered (by me, at least) rude, so I didn't, but all of my answers felt, at the very least, humblingly inadequate.

"It's not fair that I should have to do all the work in a group project! I should just tell my teacher, or take the zero." "Um: No.  If I find out you took a zero on a project just because the other people weren't pulling their weight, we're going to have an issue.  Sometimes, you're going to have to deal with people who let you down, who don't do their share.  You're right: It is 100% unfair, and you SHOULD mention it to the teacher - (bc one kid is dropping the class, he is doing literally no work for the project, and should not have been assigned to a group, IMO)- but, since it's due on Tuesday, at this point, you're either going to have to ride the other people in the group till they produce their part, or do their part for the sake of your grade. It's not fair, but it is Do-able." 

"Well, the test will be scaled, so all I need to do is get about a 45, and that will still be a C, scaled up." (I have no idea how the math works on that, just that's what he said.) "You can - for sure - do better than a 45, and you need to set your sights a lot higher than that. Are you studying the right things; Is there anyway I can help you study, so you can do better? Because aiming for a low pass is something you're better than." 

"I never should have taken this class, I'm in so over my head, and it's impossible to pass, and I'll probably get a 2 on my AP test, and then it will all have been a big waste of my time."  "OK: I can see how it would feel that way, but you have to try to reframe it a bit, I think.  It's not impossible to pass, because you are passing it. Even if you get a 2 on the AP test, you will still have passed AP Physics. Yes, I know your grades aren't where you want them to be, and here are 2 specific things I think you can do to bring it up some this next quarter, but stop thinking of it as impossible, because that just gives you an excuse if you don't do it.  You ARE doing it. You don't need the excuses." 

 And on and on.  I felt like a mix between one of my therapists, and a Hallmark "You can DO it: I have faith in you!" card. (Because that was literally something I said.  It felt so sappy, but it's also 1000000% true, so I figured it needed to be said.)

Mostly what I wanted to say was this:

You are an amazing kid, and I don't like how overwhelmed and stressed out you are right now.  I am going to help you find some better coping strategies, because this is not working out for you.  I also think that maybe you should take some deep breaths, and listen to me when I say: This class - pass or fail, A or D - is not going to be the be-all-end-all of your life.  I know it feels that way right now, because I went through it myself.  But 15 years later? None of those things actually mattered.  What matters is how I responded to tough parts; how you hang in there when things are hard - in school or in life - THAT IS WHAT MATTERS.  So let me help you figure out how to hang in there.  How to breathe, even in the midst of the really tough times.  How to see a challenge that feels overwhelming, and still know - even if nobody else shows up - that you can tackle it.  Because You Absolutely Can.  And I will help you, for as long as you need my help, but I'm also going to show you how to do it yourself.  Because those are the skills you need. 

And off he goes, to take a test he's petrified of, and all I can do is say "Stub a toe" (our family's version of 'Break a leg') and cross my fingers, and know, even if he doesn't, that he can handle whatever comes at him.

The West Wing is never wrong.

There's this episode of The West Wing (see below), where President Bartlet says to Josh Lyman "I want to be the guy. You want to be the guy the guy counts on," and I think it is the piece of fictional dialogue I have most related to in my entire life.

Because that's me: I want to be the guy (or girl, in this instance) that people count on.

And I think I am, to a pretty large extent.

But the thing about being that guy/girl, is that it's fucking hard. And lonely. Frustrating. Anxiety-producing. And, for me, at least, it's really really difficult to stay on the side of the line that equates with uber-dependability, without crossing into total, unselfishly-selfish martyrdom. (Because, honestly, is there anything that winds up being more selfish than a person who can't think about themselves in any situation and starts feeling taken advantage of by everyone in their life? Probably not.)

So, it's a difficult line to toe, and I definitely feel like I have fallen, head first, over it in my current situation, which has created this atmosphere where I find nearly everything my brother does upsetting, and I can't figure out if I'm overreacting or not. I feel like all of the sudden I'm realizing that everyone else has been right for the past year and a half; that he is definitely taking advantage of me, and that I'm enabling all sorts of inappropriate behavior on his part. That I've somehow wound up in this relationship with him where I can't be honest because I feel like he takes offense so easily, and the kids are the ones who wind up getting hurt.

For examples - he cancelled my nephew's birthday party the night before because his other aunt (my deceased sister-in-law's sister) overstepped and tried to change the times like it was her right. I get that she overstepped, but he completely overreacted, threw a tantrum and we all just had to go along with it, because they're his kids, and he is in charge of them. He overreacts about 95% of things - in a way that I find aggressive and overwhelming, because it reminds me so much of our dads, and their bad behavior, and I usually back down, because it's the kids who are in the middle. I wind up having to act as interpreter for him to everybody - "he meant to say" or "he's really hurt about" or "he's just tired tonight". So many fucking excuses that I heard as a kid and told myself I would never tell, and here I am slinging them like I'm reciting back my ABC's.

I know he's hurting, and I know he's grieving, but I also know that he's kind of an asshole, and, under any other circumstances, I would tell him so. I call him out when it's stuff with the kids - or at least try to, I'm ashamed to say how often I find myself retreating into the intimated girl I used to be when faced with slamming doors and stomping feet - but let everything else go with a "I am just to tired to fight this fight today" mentality. I just don't know why everything has to be a fight, why everything has to be so tense all the time. 

His sense of responsibility and mine are completely different: I have been putting those kids first - before  my own health, even - since they were born. Not full-time, until now, but definitely in a way that has been unhealthy for me, even. He thinks he has been doing the same thing, but, it's different.  He thinks working and feeding them and not exploding every time he's pissed off about something is something that should earn him kudos and cookies.  I think you're doing the bare minimum that is required of you as a father, and you just need to get on with it and act like a grown up.

There was a lot of talk, after she first passed, about letting him sink or swim on his own.  Just... going home and letting them all put the pieces back together as best they could. I knew then that that just could not happen, because he was as checked out as he could possibly be, while still being physically present. And those two kids needed more than a father-sized shape walking around, especially with the big gaping mother-sized hole they both will always have. An auntie who is trying her best-sized block isn't good enough: it's never going to be. But if it's what we've got to work with, then I can't take that away from them. I can't imagine leaving, of my own free will.  I can easily imagine him making me leave by being so much of an asshole that I can't deal with him anymore without losing my mind. (Because I lived with one of those already, and - as hard as I try not to draw comparisons, they are there to be drawn.)

He's not always an asshole. He can be sweet.  He plays catch with them sometimes, or surprises them by going out for breakfast. He lets me buy whatever the hell I think we need grocery shopping online, even if I have to order every other day. He doesn't care about paying for things, except when he does, and make a big deal out of those things.  He worries about me, when I'm extra/normal people on top of chronic sick, even if he doesn't actually do more so I can do less.  He has said the words "You don't need to contribute more than your presence to stay here - I don't expect more from you than what you do." But I also don't feel like he gets what I do, the extent of it or the import of it, at all. 

I guess I just feel really underappreciated right now, since he just took a night off the other night - just went out and didn't come home, and told me at like 3:30 that that's what he was doing, and didn't even tell the kids, and left me to deal with the fallout, and then got pissed the next morning when I told him there was fallout about it from the kids.  And then the kids were all fine when he was here, and he didn't have to deal with any of their anxiety at him not being home or their anger that they didn't know, or their terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad days, and I did.  I took care of them, and I keep taking care of them, and I love it, because I love them, but.... it is so hard. And he just doesn't see.  He doesn't worry about Lil Girl's back, or NephTwo's broken heart, or MCAS or the stupid fish that hides in its filing cabinet, or why nobody can fill up the whole goddamn dishwasher instead of 9/10ths of it, or if that one's wearing the same dirty shirt she wore three days in a row, or if this one is coming home late and is all giggly, and now I have to google what the signs of pot use in teenagers are, even though I didn't smell it, but I have a stuffy nose, so let's just double check.

 He loves these kids as hard as he's ever loved anybody else, I KNOW it, I can SEE it. But he SUCKS at making them feel it. At showing it in any meaningful, past this one specific moment, kind of way. He worries about them too, but I know it's not the same way I do. I worry about them first, and I don't think he does, because he couldn't act the way he does if he was thinking of them. My grandmother always said fathers were like that, that mother's hearts were different, and fathers never really understood, but I hope that's a piece of generational sexism that doesn't prove true.  I mean, no: they are different.  But I don't think that means father's can't put their kids first.  I think he may even believe that's what he's doing. I just don't know how to get him to see that his behavior is as harmful as it is. To all of us.

And I really, really, don't want those kids to come up to me, 20 years from now and say: Why couldn't you just tell him he was being such a jerk, why did the house have to feel like that? Because it's what I sometimes want to say to my mum, still.  And I know these issues predate SisterNc's death, because their relationship was rocky and had a lot of the problems I'm banging my head against right now, but it's different, bc he's my brother, and they're not technically my kids, and I'm supposed to be helping.

That's the real problem - I'm supposed to be helping, and I just don't know how to do it right now, so I feel like shit. 

Probably I'll just start rewatching The West Wing.  That seems like a good idea.

2:41 AM, 10th November, 2014

If you follow me on Twitter, you know that my sister-in-law passed away on November 10th.  She died peacefully - I saw her breathe her last breath, open her eyes, and then, just... never take another one, from the same exact chair I am sitting in to write this post, 12 days later.

She fought so diligently and so hard, for so long, even though she really only had a short time. Her cancer proved to be super-aggressive, and ... towards the end, there wasn't much we could do for her but keep her comfortable, and wait.

That last Sunday was horrible, with last rites, and a house full of family - hers and ours, and theirs - and her being unresponsive by dinnertime. 

That morning, early - like 4:30 in the morning, early - I smelled the sharp scent of urine, and had to feel to see if she'd wet the bed (mostly because, at this point, she was sweating through her clothes so much that she was almost always damp). It was her first bout of incontinence, and - although I knew it boded ill, I did not realize how quickly things would go downhill from there.  I had to wake my brother up to help me change the sheets, and then she took her pain meds and went back to sleep.

A few hours later, she'd woken up in extreme pain, couldn't seem to settle at all. Just kept shifting from one end of the bed to the next, every 5 minutes or so.  She took more pain meds, but was just super uncomfortable and couldn't find a spot that worked for her. She told me her pain was 10/10 and she was crying, almost incoherent.

I woke my brother up again - from the couch this time - and he called the hospice nurse. Who came and different meds were administered, and we - the nurse and I resettled her on the couch, to try to help her find a way to sit with less pain while she waited for the meds to kick in.

It was during this transition that she was last semi-lucid, at least in my presence, and as I sat her down on the couch after yet another 'I'm so uncomfortable, I just need to move' attempt on her part (wordless, though - that's just the impression I got), she leaned over and gave me a kiss on the forehead.

I don't know if she knew who I was then. I don't know if she meant that for me, and I feel guilty that I was the person who got her last kiss. I haven't told anyone in our family that she did it, I don't think (although ... things were pretty intense there for a while last week, so I may have told one of my sisters without thinking about it), but it felt like a "Thank you" and a blessing and - now, knowing it was her last, and she didn't get to give it to my brother or their kids, or even her sister who showed up moments later? Almost a torment.  I still feel gifted by it, always will, but it hurts my heart so much that she's not here to give out anymore.

Shortly after that, her sister came, a family friend who is an actual nurse and knows what the hell she is doing (as opposed to me, who just spent weeks caring for someone I loved and watching them slip away, AGAIN, but was just doing my best and making it up as I went along, and following directions) also arrived, and I moved into a much more peripheral role.

She continued to get worse and worse, becoming unresponsive to everything besides pain, relatively quickly (within a few hours). I let my brother and her sister, and the nurses, be in charge of what they could be in charge of, and I made sure the kids got fed and my parents & sisters got called, and that her sister knew she needed to call her parents and brothers as well. I learned all about the new, liquid meds from the hospice nurse, and gave doses of morphine and ativan and hyamax as the day wore on.

I called the priest, and the funeral home, and the priest again. (And we all know how much I hate making phone calls). We cried, and waited, and held hands, and helped the kids. Gave them a chance to say goodbye, then let the little one curl up into my lap and sob when she walked away. Watched her big brother comfort my big brother as they both sat in tears by my sister-in-law, SisterNc's side.

Watched as her nieces and nephews filtered in and out. Approved as my sister and her husband ordered a regiment's worth of pizzas and made sure everybody got fed. Comforted and cried, and just sat around rubbing smooth patterns into backs, and backs of hands, and anywhere I could reach, really.

Later, her parents and brothers, and my dad and sisters, all cleared out.  We were down to my mom, her sister, the family friend who is a nurse, my brother and I, and a friend who had known them both since the moment they met, some 16 years ago.  Around midnight, it seemed to get dramatically worse, and the med levels increased and the hospice nurse came out again and told us "a matter of hours."

About 2:30, my brother and her sister both decide to go upstairs to get some rest. The nurse-friend, the work-friend and I are sitting in the living room, my mom has snuck outside to get a cigarette.

A quick text from my brother asking me to bump the heat up because it's freezing upstairs, @ 2:37. As I settle back into my chair, I glance over at Nancy, see her breathing is very strange, but I check the book and it is nowhere near time for more meds. So I sit down, and the work friend says to me that she gets an inspirational text every day on her cell phone and starts to read it to me. It says something about "new pathways and being open to new challenges," And that's when I see SisterNc's eyes open, and I notice that she hasn't taken her next breath.

The nurse-friend has noticed too, and is getting up, checking on her, fussing with her. We both know - I can see she knows - that there is no reason to fuss.

It is 2:41 am, on Monday, November the 10th, 2014, and my only sister-in-law, the beloved wife of my brother and mother to two of my favorite people in the entire world, the only sister I ever made instead of came with, has died.

I send my brother a text that reads "you need to come back down, honey", and he must know. He wakes her sister up and doesn't bomb down the stairs. Takes each step, heavily, I can hear it even now. They are both crying as soon as they see us. As soon as they see her.

My mother comes in from the kitchen, seeing us, and begins crying too.

And that was her last day, her last actions, her last minutes, to the best of my recollection. I do not want that kind of thing to be forgotten, even if I am the only one who remembers it.

The past twelve days have been torturous for my brother, and difficult for his children, and so heartbreaking for all of us. I don't know how to help any more than I am, but I fear that it will not be enough.

I am - we all are - doing the best we can.

But it's hard to keep swimming with a broken heart, and hard to hold the pieces together while you wait for even the tiniest bit of it to heal.

Why doesn't liquor work in real life the way it does on tv?

Today they talked to us about hospice. My sister-in-law is still a month shy of her 45th birthday. She and my brother just bought a house, and never had a honeymoon. And tonight, I need to have a conversation with her children about how they live the rest of their lives without her. Not today, but soon.

There are very few times in my life when I've thought "God I really wish I could drink," given what I know about drinking and how I've never seen it actually help any actual person as opposed to hurt them worse, but ... boy: if it worked like it did in the movies, just numbing things for a little while? Today would be one of those days.

Sacked out on the couch

listening to the oxygen machine and my niece read me William's Doll; waiting for my nephew to come in and finish his homework, too. The kids have the day off tomorrow, and they're working to make it a really free day, to finish all their work so they don't have anything required of them tomorrow.

Their parents are in bed - SisterNc had a bad pain day, and her meds are kicking her butt. She's mostly sleeping her days away, and getting her to eat anything is like UGH. And tomorrow she starts the chemo again. So, joy of joys. Big/Only Brother is in bed too, since he has to be up in four hours or so to head off to work. And the littles are being adorable, and not little at all, and I'm leaving spaces in my conversations for the words I know need to come out, but I'm also typing with my eyes closed half the time, so there's that.

Well: off to a few final hours of math and reading and not getting up early in the morning.

Don't forget to vote tomorrow, if there's voting near you: I won't get to (since home is 25 minutes away and getting someone to come down, take me home to vote for 6 minutes, then drive me back, and then drive home again? Absurd), so if you can, make sure you do!

Night all.