I had surgery this past Friday. Last night I was exactly 3 days postop and still am not allowed out of bed except to go to use the bathroom. Otherwise, my life consists of the 4 walls of my bedroom, the 4 walls of my bathroom, my TV, my TiVo, my bed table, and a few things I have been working on for the office - only certain things my husband doesn't think are too taxing for me. He forgot one thing. His mother.
Last night I had not one, not 2, but 17 phone calls from MIL. She is the one who has a compression fractured humerus from last week's episode of raking leaves off the bushes. It's been bad enough that she told her other son I wouldn't buy her a large ice pack (she's the one who told me she had 10 of them at her home) and I wouldn't do her dishes for her, or do this or that or whatever. It's not nice to mess with a crabby woman in pain and who isn't allowed to do anything. BIL got the end of my tongue and quietly went away and hasn't said boo to me since.
Not so lucky with MIL. Hubs and I had her checked out in the ER to make sure she didn't suffer a concussion or have another stroke. But if I have to keep putting up with her antics, there is something wrong with either her or me and one of us is going down.
I am bedridden for a bit. MIL knows this. So MIL starts calling me last night wanting me to come right over. I say I can't and ask why.
MIL: "I can't get my ring off my finger."
Me: "You remember I had surgery and am not allowed to leave my bedroom, right? So how can I come over?"
Me: "So what finger? Do you usually take the ring off at night?"
MIL, losing patience with me: "I.cannot.get.my.ring.off.of.my.finger."
Me: "I understand you can't get your ring off your finger. You don't have to speak slow for me to understand that. Now what finger is your ring on?"
MIL: "It's on the finger on my hand."
Me: "Good. Now which hand?"
MIL: "The arm you say I broke. The doctor was probably a quack and you are paying him off just to keep me away from my husband. What's wrong with dad? What haven't you told me?"
Me: "Now, first of all, the emergency room doctor AND an orthopedic doctor and an x-ray all confirmed that your arm was broken. Neither doctor is a fake. I am not paying anyone to keep you away from your husband. Let's get back to the ring. Now you said the ring is on the same arm that you broke? Have you tried to take it off before now?"
MIL: "You just don't understand."
Me: "Well, I guess not. But your son is due home soon and I will have the distinct pleasure of having him call you."
Click.
We went over this ever few minutes. It would vary in that she would add the shingles into the conversation and wondered if the shingles were causing her not to be able to take off the ring. (Yeah she is now admitting she has shingles).
I finally concluded that she was having an anxiety attack and irregardless of anything I said to her, nothing was going to help. She then said she was going to the basement and cut off the ring.
I stopped that by saying if she did then I was calling 911 on her and have her committed to a psych ward.
Hubs came home and took over. He called. She got the ring off by icing it (like I told her to) and using Windex to coat the finger (yeah Windex works way better than soap or oil).
Crisis adverted. Thus begins another day.
