Cursing, swearing and dropping the F-Bomb, something that was not really part of my make-up until… the past few years.

It start around 8 years or so ago.  I had a conversation with a person in their 30’s who told me dropping the F-Bomb was not as shocking in their generation as it was in mine.  Then true enough, I started hearing more and more.  I can’t really say how it start for me but once it did it grew until I couldn’t stop.   

The first time, I was upset, angry, frustrated and it just came out of my mouth.  I had an immediate guilt pang, disappointed in myself but it did seem to carry a release of some kind.  From there it went out of control, I still had that momentary guilt but it was accompanied with a feeling of justification because, after all, the situation (whatever it was) called for an F-Bomb reaction. Right?

Slowly, it became part of something I said but really didn’t like.  I would read posts and comments full of F’ing and flailing and I didn’t think it was civil or proper or edifying.  I made a decision to stop, I’d say a prayer for forgiveness every time I slipped but it seemed to have grabbed me, it was not going to give up easily and it was not going to let me go.

The more I struggled, the more I realized it was a controlling spirit that was destroying mine.   It no longer brought release of frustration; it only tore me down spiritually and emotionally.  The more I heard it, or spoke it, the sicker I felt.  It did not raise me up, it torn me down in my own eyes and in the eyes of God.

I was having dinner with a friend recently in a restaurant/bar.  The air was full of swearing, cursing,  F-Bombs and I was filled with sadness. The next day someone called me regarding a legal dealing with my mother, every other word was F this and F that… F it, F it, F it.   I kept my cool and after a while I said, “I am going to say goodbye now, as I see this conversation is going nowhere.”

It was then I knew.  No one had ever spoken to me that way before and that form of speech was not something I wanted as part of me, even occasionally.  I should never have accepted it as  a common form of speech.  If it is for the younger generation, it makes me sad for the generation that follows theirs.

I felt God was dealing with me and opening my eyes to this evil I had let enter my life.    I am ashamed and with God’s help, I am going to drive this spirit of destructive speech out of vocabulary, out of my soul, out of my heart.

“Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer.”

Psalm 19:14 ESV

My mother is now one year in nursing care.  She lived alone for the previous nine years since her husband passed in 2009. 

She had not been able to care for her old house that had been her home for the past 45 years. She couldn’t, and she wouldn’t allow anyone else do it for her. 

Every stage of this process has its own heartache. During that period of time it was hard to choose between allowing her to make decisions in her own life and watching her live in those conditions. 

After several minor incidents, and some we found out later she had hid from us, she fell and broke her pelvis.  She was sent to a nursing facility for rehab.  After physical rehab her Dr told her because of her dementia it was not safe for her to live alone. It was a sad, tearful, yet sweet moment.  There was few moments of mourning but she wiped her tears and went forward to this new phase in life. 

I thought telling her she could not return home would be the most difficult moment I’d face.  However, the tough choices come in stages. 

For the past six months, I have been trying to clear out that old house. I say I, but also a brother/sister-in-law and a sister, not my biological ones but the ones I gain through the marriage if our parents 46 years ago and they are ones that are closer than blood. 

We all live out-of-town.  At Thanksgiving last year, we converged on that old house and worked for days tossing five decades of things that our parents could never let go of. The WWII generation that knew rationing and shortages, never tossed anything out, because they may have needed it someday. 

Four trips later traveling from my home 2000 miles away, I have fine-tuned my sorting and clearing, shipped home more than I needed or wanted. I did it because my Mother wanted to make sure these things, many if which belonged to her parents and grandparents, stayed in the family. There were also things she wanted me to keep because, “I had those since before you were born…”. These things were her treasures, but I am finding hard to make the same treasured connection. However, I have honored most of her requests.  

My mother constantly asks what about this or that.   We discuss again and again things that I told her I have already safeguarded.  No matter how much I take, it seems there is always one more thing. 

Now, I find myself nearing the end of this process. Unable to find an organization in this final stage that can help liquidate what is left, I realize I must donate the remaining items to charity. 

This too, is a terribly difficult thing to do. I am dismantling my mother’s life and she is still living. I try to be as honest with her as I can.  I try to explain in a delicate and loving way what is happening.  She was always a person that helped those in need. I try to paint a positive outlook for her as I can, like telling her there was a person that needed a bed and dresser and I offered him one. Although, she says, “Good,” she starts to cry. 

Here is the dilemma, I either tell her the truth (maybe sugar coated) or I lie. Lies are not my thing, but the truth, even sugar-coated,  hurts.    

When we discuss the same things again and again, she will say, “Why didn’t you tell me?”  I’ll remind her that I did and she’ll reply “I don’t remember.”   I say I know you don’t remember and that’s not your fault. 

Sometimes I silently give thanks that tomorrow she may not remember today’s discussion that brought on her tears.  I think, after everything dementia takes, not remembering today’s heartaches may be the one small blessing in this disease.