Who Should Be Put In A Home, Grandmother Or Father?

Now that I'm really worried about Grandmother to the point where I've made a subtle yet profound change in thinking (there's more to it; I'll write about that later), My Fucking Father has to get all weird on me. Again.

I'm feeling really stressed already over Grandmother's recent episode, even if her mood swings aren't so wild now. After going out and hearing commotion again from the kitchen (she's been using the microwave a lot late at night), I hear and then see My Father coming up from downstairs.

He asks me what I'm doing tomorrow. He's been saying that a lot recently. I told him the truth: I will be working in Maple Grove tomorrow from 8 to 4. After hesitating, I ask him, "Can I help you with something?"

He wants me to pick him up from The Store after I'm done training. He wants me to get there as early as possible. Mother apparently is taking the long way home from work. Questions:

• Has he wanted me to pick him up for some time now?
• If so, why hasn't he asked till now? Did he not have the balls to ask till now, or has something changed?
• I recently learned that he and Mother make deliveries in the afternoon. Wouldn't Mother need help? Maybe this is a one-time thing, but what if it's not? Will he want me to pick him up from The Store four days a week now?
• And, most important of all, does that mean that he's closing The Store, or will very, very soon? Of all the shit I'm going through now, the first stressor in my life is fast getting back onto the front burner. And I don't have the time or the stomach for that.

---

Later in the evening I hear even more commotion from outside, specifically something dropping. I went out to see if it's Grandmother going out to microwave a drink again.

It wasn't. It was My Fucking Father, stumbling toward me at the end of the dining room table. But he didn't turn on the lights. So what I saw was this apparition stumbling toward me with a limp. Fucking scary. I retreated back to my bedroom.

I thought he was going to get something to eat, sit down and have a late-night snack, which he does frequently. He didn't do that. While I was watching late-night TV, I heard nothing but silence outside. I then turned off my TV because it's creepy feeling like My Fucking Father can listen to me. I peered underneath my bedroom door; complete darkness.

I think he does that on occasion. Either he enjoys the silence or feels the need to wallow in it. Not only is it scary, it's downright pathetic, honestly. Knowing his nasty personal nature, I think he's inviting me or Grandmother to come out and ask what's going on, thereby being able to pounce on us for any grievance he feels he can hold against us. It's an acute act of self-pity, martyrdom without the audience.

I know from experience. A bad memory I have is of a time I innocently went from the bathroom to the kitchen to get something to eat. This was the year after I graduated from USC and I came back home. There was an old reclining chair in the living room, kitty-corner from the kitchen but on the same hallway from the bathroom. I remember going from the kitchen to the bathroom in darkness. Then I heard him breathe in and say, "Son, what is your future?" The fucking asshole was waiting for me in darkness, like a goddamn Viet Cong ambush. He then just berated me about how much he sacrificed for me, just so I could get a journalism degree that pays no money, and now I return home to burden him some more. I felt like shit after he got up and went downstairs. Fucker just waited for me because he was feeling sorry for myself and then wanted to take it out on me. He's where I got my self-pity from.

I think he was doing that again -- either that or he just woke up from a nap or a pill-induced stupor. I wanted to go out and see if he had gone downstairs and I just didn't hear him. I even sat up on my bed. But I didn't want to confront that asshole in case he wanted to lure me into his passive-aggressive trap. After a half-hour I finally hear some rustling and the shoving of a chair. Father finally got up, even if it was in complete darkness.

Finally, I hear something in the kitchen. Maybe it's Grandmother again. I get out and see it actually is My Fucking Father finally making something for himself. With a light finally on, I could see that there was of pile of that day's junk mail on the floor; I guess Father knocked it over and didn't see it. Nor did he care to pick them up.

Intentional though his actions may be, My Father was acting strange. Is this a sign of senility? Will I have to take care of two people in the nursing home soon? Maybe then it's time to move.