I am the Ostrich
Posted By Marti on January 27, 2012
“I Am the Walrus” is a 1967 song by the Beatles. You youngens can Google that, or better yet, ask your parents and watch their faces go through the stages of:
Horror that you don’t know who the Beatles are
Nostalgic as they remember their youth filtered through the gauze of time
Resignation that they are indeed (shock and horror reappear here) …old
I remember the Beatles, but I am not the Walrus.
I am the Ostrich.
We’ve had a pretty rough go of it for the last few months, as my mother-in-law’s health declined and we were forced to move in with her (and her little dog too 
)
It was tough. It was like going back to his childhood for husband. Not in a warm and fuzzy kind of way, but in an, “Oh My God, I worked for 50 years to bury these horrid memories” kind of way. His mother can be brutally critical, believing she is displaying her love through unabashed opining on what she sees as negative characteristics or flaws.
Our bedtimes and meals were regulated like we were kindergartners. There was no alcohol (just when we needed it the most). We took to subterfuge, sneaking a flask into our bedroom as I stood guard at the door, listening for her shuffling steps, watching for the sparks from the carpet, because she had turned off her humidifier which made the house as dry as Mars and caused enough static electricity to create visible electrical discharge. I could also watch for her shadow (which was eerily reminiscent of Nosferatu, due to her slow, tiny steps, which make her appear to be floating, and her dowagers hump – her osteoporosis has caused her spine to become shaped like a question mark) as she also had so many nightlights that walking down the hallway was like coming in for a landing on a runway. It was never, ever dark in her house.
All of this, combined with her unholy fear of a high electric bill and thus insisting that we limit our time on her computer (which actually uses very little electricity) caused me to simply go dark, internet-wise.
I became the Ostrich.
I buried my head in the sand and sobbed quietly (not a good idea, sand in your mouth is really icky).
I stopped posting, tweeting, doing status updates, playing games, circling people, following people, friending people, unfriending people and everything else that us social media junkies do.
Then she fell at home, miraculously not breaking any bones, but injuring herself enough to spend several days in the hospital and causing her doctor to say, “No more. You can not live at home any more.”
So when her hospitalization ended, she was sent directly to a nursing home rehabilitation unit. She was not happy, but she is rarely happy. We remained in her house to watch her dog until she could make a decision on where she would ultimately go, as her time in rehab is limited by strict Medicare rules, and she must show continued progress with physical therapy. When the progress stops, so does Medicare. Then she will have to find a different place to live that is not her house. Rumor had it that some assisted living facilities allowed pets, so she was hopeful that she would get to live out her days with her beloved pup.
During this time we stayed at her home, played with beloved pup, drank, ate what and when we wanted, unplugged every damned nightlight, stayed up late and ran many, many errands for her, which again limited our time using her computer, so I remained the Ostrich.
It was a strange experience. The first few days at her house, unable to check e-mail, Facebook, Google Plus, Twitter, Empire Avenue and multiple news sites, were torture for me (I was like an addict in withdrawal – an angry, shaky addict). Dear God how I missed the Internet.
But now we are back home, grandma is in lockdown at the nursing home, and I am back online. Still somewhat limited though, because grandma has us running a thousand errands every day. I am plowing through 4,000 backlogged e-mails. If you sent me a request for anything, please be patient. Meanwhile, grandma learned that few facilities in the Kansas City area actually allow pets. She had promised we could have her little dog, but then she had a bad dream that a wild animal ate her dog at our farm, so she is now going to give the dog away to strangers. Husband and I are crushed, as we became quite attached to Misty.
I am left wondering what type of beast wanders the hills of Grain Valley, Missouri, eating Cairn Terriers.
