We’d showered together. I’d washed him, head to toe, and then he spun me around, taking a moment to kick and grind his foot into my not-yet-washed cunt.
You know, as you do.
“Now kneel down and lick my foot off,” he said, lifting his foot slightly off the tub floor. I did, and as I was down there with my head bowed, he pissed all over my hair.
He grabbed my hand, held it in the stream of urine until he’d finished, then he pulled me to my feet and “washed” my face with my hand. “Lick it.” he said, holding my hand against my mouth.
He stepped out then, leaving me in the shower to clean up. I hadn’t even finished soaping up my loofah when I sensed a shadow overhead. Looking up, I saw him leering at me over the top of the shower curtain, foamy toothbrush in his mouth.
He spit his used toothpaste on the top of my head.
Again. And again.
“Open your mouth.” he said, for the final spit.
Allowed then to finally clean myself up, I shampooed and scrubbed and shaved. Opening the shower curtain, Master went to hand me a towel.
“Ewww! I can’t use your towel!” I exclaimed, reaching past him for my own. “That’s gross!”
I have been losing- and gaining back- the same 25 pounds for like 7 years.
The worst thing is that even when I’ve lost that 25, I still need to lose another 25. Ha!
It’s like a curse. I hit a certain number on the scale and that’s it. I just… stop. Stop eating right, stop exercising. And I always have some handy-dandy excuse.
One of the things on my mind with that last post was my weight because as soon as he stops being a hard ass about it, I revert to my old eating habits. It’s not that I think he should have to maintain such a strict approach about my diet
(Lies. I do too. Because that’d be easier on me.)
but if dieting were that simple, nobody would be overweight.
It does make me wonder if I have even a tiny bit of a desire to please or if I’m only obedient in the moment. Because there are a lot of things I could (should) be doing that I know he would be pleased about or find pleasing, but if he’s not monitoring or checking my obedience– I drift.
Although I’ve been pretty up front about my motivations. Force and control. The end.
Even from my view that sounds exhausting.
Anyway. I got fat again.
Well, fatter because I hadn’t exactly achieved skinny yet.
We both tell ourselves, and each other, that that’s ok! We like me this size! But that’s not true and we both know it. That’s his out and that’s my out. Seems like knowing that does fuck all to keep me from shoving food in my face fuck hole.
You know what makes me eat more? Guilt!
Guilt over not being slavey enough to get skinny simply because he desires it. I eat guilt for breakfast, lunch and dinner. And then second breakfast, 3 pm snack, bedtime snack…
So pretty much I suck. And not just cock.
For the slaves: What do you think is the reason you are unable to maintain when your owner is otherwise preoccupied for an extended period of time?
I’m being deliberately vague because I don’t want to get bogged down in details. ‘Maintain’ can mean headspace, following rules, whatever- define it for yourself. ‘Preoccupied for an extended period’ can mean s/he is busy at work, interested in a new thing (person, hobby, etc.), in a funk, doesn’t seem to care, insert your own reason.
If this does not happen to you, if you- the slave- are able to keep on keepin’ on regardless of your owner’s level of participation, what is your thought process? Do you secretly get snitty even if you don’t act on it? lol
For the Owners: What are your thoughts about the above? What do you think the slave should be doing/thinking on their own? How much or how long do you expect to be able to be ‘hands off’ before something starts to crack, if at all?
Lastly, for both sides: Why do you think it’s so prevalent that once the collar goes on, the things that happened to make the slave want the collar seem to stop?
Ps. Not all of my questions pertain to anything happening in my personal life right at this moment but I’ve had a slew of messages basically asking all of the above, in one form or another. I get them quite frequently, to be honest. It is the number one question I get asked. And it IS stuff we have personally experienced so pretty much I have zero useful answers.
But maybe y’all do. Feel free to answer anonymously if you’d rather.
–>clicky-clicky–>(Fabulous discussion going on on this at Fetlife)
Five everyday items you didn’t know were worth selling
Right now, there are an array of items scattered around your house that you’re probably not even using and could be selling for big bucks. Now, these aren’t the type of things that one would sell on eBay (or any mainstream site for that matter). These are the products searched for in the incognito tab. The products where history has to be cleared post-search. These are… the everyday items that are bought and sold regularly in the adult industry.
Before you start flogging your toasters and kettles on the internet, it’s not that simple. The reason these buyers want to purchase these products is because of the seller. They have usually read a profile or even spoken to the seller directly, building a sort of rapport; a relationship if you will. The items become more than just their literal worth. They become a something from someone you know. This is what gives them their monetary value. Buyers enjoy purchasing these pieces because they feel a connection with the seller and revel in owning something they have owned.
Don’t get me wrong, these buyers aren’t usually buying pens and some of the items are slightly risqué, but this is the adult industry, what did you expect?
Underwear & Undergarments
You know that pair of underwear that you’ve been meaning to throw away because you don’t wear them anymore? Well, there is a person out there that really wants them and will pay you money to have them. The used underwear business is booming. Thousands of purchases are made every day with more than that amount being listed. Sites like SofiaGray and communities such as Reddit have created platforms for sellers to advertise their used underwear to potential buyers. One user of the Reddit thread reported paying her way through college just by selling her underwear!
As much as the underwear aficionado likes the person behind the knickers, they probably enjoy their scent more.
Shoes & Socks
The foot fetish may be the most well-known of the fetishes, mainly due to it being the least taboo. The popularity of this fetish has caused a whole new sub-fetish to be born: the used shoes and socks market. A fairly new model it may be but it has been recently growing in traction; buyers purchase socks and shoes that still have the scent of the previous owner on it. Similar to underwear, the buyer generally gains sexual pleasure from the scent.
AdultWork.com have offered a marketplace where these very items can be bought and sold. A handful of sellers have gone as far as just selling the insole of the shoes, with some even being edible!
A habit that has lasted the ages and was once all the rage is now a profitable business. For the companies selling the cigarettes, it’s always been lucrative but now the buyers are having success. Just another reason not to kick the habit.
Smokers are now able to sell their used cigarettes and cigarette butts for more than a whole pack of cigarettes. However, buyers aren’t looking for any old butt lying in the street, they want something that’s been treated with love and care. Usually with the remains of lipstick at the bottom…the personal touch is what makes this a sellable item. The customers appreciate the fact that the seller has used the cigarette, that their lips were once around it and they are now the proud owner.
As far as fetishes and interests go, I believe ‘if it’s not hurting anyone, no judgement should be made’. That being said, this particular item does raise some sanitation issues. Merchants are selling their tampons and sanitary towels, after they have been used. The laws on this vary country to country as it’s generally not safe to sell something which has another person’s blood on it. However, the trading of these items continue, though a lot more scarcely than the aforementioned products in this article.
If you are considering of entering this market, please ensure to check the laws and regulations in your region.
Who doesn’t love sliding into a newly made bed with fresh sheets? Probably not many, but there are some who prefer love sliding into a newly made bed with your previously used sheets. The last item on the agenda probably requires the least amount of work as you can actually make money in your sleep. Once the bed sheet has been slept in for a day, a week, or even a month, an ad can be thrown online where there’ll be lots of potential buyers. Obviously the more ‘activities’ that have been performed on the sheets, the more of a hot ticket item it will be. Some vendors even take requests from buyers to give the sheets a more of a personal feel.
There aren’t many sites which offer the ability to sell used sheets; the marketplace at AdultWork would probably again be your best bet.
Author: Carl Greenlake
(Disclaimer: Any views or opinions presented in this guest post by Carl Greenlake are solely those of the author and do not necessarily represent those of UnderHisHand.com. We encourage you to do your own research!)
Master has been terrorizing me with a branding iron for YEARS. I really do mean terrorizing because I’m terrified of it. Some people think, oh, masochist, that must mean she’s constantly craving pain. Nothing could be further from the truth, not for my form of masochism anyway.
I find that most people don’t understand masochism even a little bit. They have the vaguest idea of it, like “you know… she cums if you hit her” or some such nonsense.
I not only don’t cum if you hit me, I might even hit you back.
Obvs not you, Master. *sweet smile*
Although, since you brought it up Sir, I would like to point out that bondage has a PURPOSE and if you choose not to USE IT then you’re practically giving me permission to kic-… ahem. Never mind all that.
Where was I?
My masochism is less about pain and much much more about power and force and being treated badly. Pain is just one of the ways to demonstrate the power you might have over someone, a very valid and useful one, and one that fulfills my desire to be “treated badly”.
I rarely crave pain but I often crave being treated badly. Master ‘treats me badly’ in many many ways, not just by hurting me. And I am usually very grateful for what he does- once it’s over. The during part can sometimes be kind of ragey and hateful, though.
That’s just how I process things. It’s taken a long long time for both of us to not only understand it, but to accept it.
Sometimes I think Master might have preferred one of the more classic masochists. The ones begging for it and creaming down their thighs for it. The ones who look back up after a smack with eyes bright with lust, not eyes that are shooting daggers.
Instead he picked me. Difficult, stubborn, obscurely masochistic.
He and I watched a video once of a girl who was being pissed on by her dom, and she was LOVING it. She clearly thought it was the hottest thing ever, she begged for it, she spoke of how amazing it was. She tasted it and drank it and massaged it all over her body. And her eyes- my god- her eyes just gleamed with passion and need. When someone talks about being eye fucked, I think of her and that video, because she was sucking his cock with her eyes.
If I tried to do that, to act that way when he was pissing on me, it would be role playing, pretending to be something I’m not or that I feel something I don’t. Because the act of being pissed on doesn’t turn me on. I’m not wanting to go swimming in his urine or to lap it up like a thirsty dog. Swallowing it is a chore, it tastes bad, it smells bad, it makes my eyes burn and it makes me feel gross and want to take a shower. What I’m lapping up, if anything, is the power he’s holding over me by shoving me down and pissing on me like a dog. If I did want it that badly- the piss, specifically- if I was begging for it and hoping for it and he just… gave it to me? There’s just something so LESS powerful in that scenario. So very much less ‘treating badly’.
What that girl felt, what she demonstrated in the video with her lusty eyes and her urine-soaked dance of passion is what I feel on the inside– afterwards. After I’ve been pissed on/beat up/berated/humiliated, after I’ve felt his power wash over me the way her dom’s urine washed over her. Then I am passionate and needy and think he’s amazing and wonderful and would, without a doubt, do anything to please him.
I really do see the dichotomy of him “forcing” me to submit to these things I don’t like as, in fact, he is giving me what I want and need.
Anyway, so he’s been terrorizing me with this branding iron idea for years. He has one, a regular ol’ branding iron shaped like an S. It’s not large, but it’s thick. It’s not a wire coat hangar twisted into an S shape, it’s- I have no idea what it’s made out of. But it looks, from my perspective, as I’m imagining it searing it into my skin, THICK AS FUCK. (I think it was made for branding steaks or something. Man Grilling, where they even have to mark their food. lol.)
He talks about how he’s going to heat it until it glows red. And then he’ll look at me, assessing, looking me up and down. Talking- more to himself than to me- about where he might do it.
Inner thigh? Pubic mound? Breast? Ass cheek? Shoulder blade? Hip bone? He’ll lay it against my skin, as he names each option, pressing painfully hard, wondering aloud how hard or how long he should hold it there, letting it burn deep into the tissue.
Sometimes he’ll get it out of the drawer where he keeps it and lay it out where I can see it. Maybe today, he’ll say, just to watch me blanch, I’m sure.
You would think I’d be numb to it by now, the goading. After so many years, you’d think my anxiety level would stop spiking, that I could just roll my eyes and say, ‘Pfft. Whatever. You ain’t gonna.’
Except– He IS “gonna”. And I know he’s going to. And it might be on some random Tuesday afternoon with Dr. Phil in the background and me in the kitchen chopping carrots for dinner. Caught off guard, no setting the scene, no atmosphere, no headspace. It’ll just be, Come here. Sit (or stand or bend or spread) and him and that S and a blow torch.
Or it’ll be at an event. He’ll casually toss it in the play bag, talk about how he’s cleared it with the hosts, how there’s going to be an audience to witness, how I’ll ‘perform’ so much better in front of people, I won’t argue or balk or cry
(Liar. I’ll cry.)
and it’ll stink, he’ll go on. Your flesh, searing and burning and smoking, stinking the place up. Do you think you’ll scream, cunt? Embarrass yourself in front of a crowd? Let them know you aren’t the big bad masochist they think you are?
I’ve been so rattled over this that at times I’ve desperately just begged him to do it, get it over with, put an end to it, I can’t stand the fear! And then I backpedal as fast as I can when he shrugs, says ok and gets up to go get it.
I know he’s been enjoying this mind fuckery for the whole time that I’ve been hating it. Fucker.
When I was at my parent’s last month, I burned my arm on the edge of the door of the wood stove. Nothing serious, just a thin line maybe an inch long, not even as deeply as he’ll need to do this brand to make it scar.
And it hurt. SO BAD.
Soo fucking bad, y’all. On my ARM, which is far less sensitive than my pubic mound or my inner thigh or or or…
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the branding iron since.
If I HAD been getting to the point of “Pfft. Whatever.” even a tiny bit? That’s gone. His mind fuckery opportunities have doubled, *at least*.
Unless he’d just fucking do it already. Get it over with!
Wait. No. I don’t mean that. I swear I didn’t mean it!
Do. Not. Want.
Probably most of you don’t know – or maybe you do know – that I dabble in dog rescue work. I say ‘dabble’ because all of my interests outside of Master cannot become obligations. He will, and he has, pulled my interests from me at random times, without notice or reason. When one is volunteering for a cause, one should be dependable. So, I am not a volunteer or a worker. I dabble.
A few months ago, back in October, I was asked if I could foster an injured puppy. At that point, I had one other foster dog, though he was terminal and therefore temporary. Prior to that, Master hadn’t allowed me to foster anyone since January.
Fostering is difficult. The dogs you usually take in are the ones you see in the ASPCA commercials. The broken, dirty ones with behavior issues. The happy-go-lucky cute ones get adopted right away, see. The matted, mangy one cowering in the corner and pissing on themselves in fear- or worse, lunging at you with their teeth bared in fear- yeah, those ones? Not so much with the quick adoptions.
There are people who do so. much. more than I do in the world of animal rescue. Me, with my one or two dogs a year. But it’s work that I love, that I find exceptionally rewarding and fulfilling. So when he lets me take in a foster, I am truly a happy little slave.
I have had a variety of personalities and issues in the dogs I’ve had over the years. Ones who hid under the kitchen table for a week. Ones labelled aggressive. Ones who jumped on the kitchen table. Ones who have bit me. Ones with gun shot wounds. Shy, timid, fearful. Emaciated, infected, broken- in both bones and spirits. They are not housebroken. They are not crate trained. They are not healthy.
I am not a dog whisperer. I am not a professional or a trainer, nor have I been trained in any way. I just love dogs. I give love and good food and a stable environment and medical care and most of the time, it works. Broken dogs become whole dogs. Unhealthy dogs become beautiful dogs. Beautiful dogs get adopted.
I am 7 for 9 on foster success stories. 7 dogs were successfully fostered and rehabbed and adopted. There was Lindy, JoJo, Z-pup (I didn’t name them, don’t ask me), Tego, Lola, Franklin and Rocky.
Number 8 was Ben, the terminal case we took in, and he passed away last month.
Number 9… was a foster fail. My very first foster fail.
He came to me as a tiny, 6 week old pit bull puppy, the only survivor of an entire litter, including his mother, that had been used as bait in teaching another dog to fight. I didn’t think he was going to make it through that first night, he was so badly broken. He had trouble breathing, he was bleeding from his eye, his nose, his mouth. He wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t drink. The vet was not very hopeful, either. she gave him an iv for some fluids, some antibiotics… he was just too weak to undergo any major medical procedures. Too weak, too small, too broken.
The other thing that people in rescue have to figure out is how to finance the needs of these animals. Vets don’t work for free, most of them don’t even take payments anymore. Of course I wouldn’t expect them to work for free, it’s just one of those sad facts that face rescues. These animals need expensive care. Sometimes you have to decide they are beyond repair and sometimes you have to decide that because you can’t afford to fix them.
Master is tolerable of a lot of things, and generous about many things- but going into debt to save animals that aren’t even his isn’t one of them. He has covered many many procedures for these dogs; medications and food and shots and and and…. but he has a limit. Everyone does.
The scan this little puppy needed to even find out what injuries he had was already out of Master’s price range. We were contemplating then whether or not we were doing this poor puppy more harm than good if we weren’t going to be able to treat his injuries. Was it time to let him go? The kindest gesture is often times the hardest.
In the meantime of trying to decide this, as I sat up nights holding his head up so the blood wouldn’t pool in his mouth, holding his lip up so he could pull air in because his nose didn’t work, shooting watered-down food down his throat with a syringe so he could get some nutrition… two things happened:
One- I have the most amazing friends who shared and shared and shared his plight on social media so the donations I needed to afford his care came in.
Two – tiny little broken puppy said ‘no way, y’all. dog fighters ain’t gonna win today’ and he got up and he started playing, and eating, and shitting, and running and biting and just being a stinker of a puppy.
In fact, he was SO energetic and so full of piss and vinegar that when he was finally able to go in for his ct scan, I fully expected the vet to say, You know what? He’s just fine!
But she didn’t. Because he wasn’t.
He had, and I quote, “the worst ct scan” of a dog’s face she had ever seen. He was, and I quote again, “a shattered egg”. Particularly through the snout area, with a hole (puncture wound) on the roof of his mouth that penetrated into his nose, his back teeth had been twisted up and were embedded in the top of his mouth, and he had two skull fractures directly behind his nose.
She would do surgery, she said, if I was willing to pay for it. She didn’t know if it would be successful, if he’d make it through, or what his future would hold. She made me no promises. I’m looking at this tiny terror of a dog, now nicknamed Sharknado because he’s such a shit, with all of this horrific damage going on under his skin, running around my house, running around my yard, chewing on toys, terrorizing my adult pit bull, hell, terrorizing us, too, and I think… if ever there was a dog who was a fighter, it’s this one. He deserves every chance we can offer him.
He had his surgery, he had teeth removed and the puncture wound repaired. He stayed in the vet hospital and got hyperbaric oxygen therapy for 5 days. For 3 weeks after, I hand fed him soft food rolled into balls so he wasn’t putting any unnecessary strain on the sutures in his mouth. His prognosis is… who knows? Dogs grow differently. His little face is lumpy and crooked. He’s developing an underbite. His nose leaks constantly (CONSTANTLY). He breathes like a child with a cold. He will likely need further surgeries as his adult teeth, which are currently pointed out his cheek, grow in. He might need help with his nose, which is still clogged with broken bone and tissue and fluid. I think he will always be a special needs case.
But he still has that amazing fighting spirit, and– I have fallen hopelessly, head over heels in love with his dumb lumpy face.
And though I had asked several times if Master would allow me to adopt this precious shithead of a puppy (truly, I say he’s a shithead with all the tenderness you can imagine, but if you met him and the people who HAVE met him will back me up- he’s a shithead. He’s SUCH a stinker!) he has not agreed. “We are fosters, kaya. We can’t keep them all.” And I know he’s right. There’s always a little part of me that wants to keep my fosters because I bond with them and they bond with us and I am 100% for sure that no one will care for them like I have.
But when you foster, if you keep them… then you can’t foster the next one. Or the next one. Eventually you run out of room and resources and time. And there is always ALWAYS going to be a “next one” in need. And I love fostering. I said that, right? Fulfilling and rewarding and what-not.
But this little guy, this adorable, not-housebroken, chewing, barking, biting, cat-chasing farting energetic expensive little puppy who wipes nose goo all over the couch… this one. This one had my heart. And the thought of letting him be adopted by some random stranger… Oh, break my heart into a million little pieces.
My sweet baby.
Yesterday, as a matter of fact, was my birthday. I turned 45 and fuck you, too, middle age. Who needs ya. Master is out of town for work, my kids don’t live nearby, I’m home alone on my birthday and that sucks, too, even though I had offers from friends to chill and eat cake, I was busy being antisocial.
So, you might be wondering what about that foster fail I mentioned earlier? Because he sounds like a success story, right? Broken puppy used as bait and on the edge of death gets life saving surgery! Expected to make a full recovery!
Well. A foster fail is when a foster becomes the adopter.
And I am, Master has informed me, officially, a big, fat FAIL.
“Oh, and happy birthday, cunt.”
You guys. Seriously. He’s the bestest Master EVAH.
Rayne posted about race play the other day and it got me wondering what your thoughts are about it.
Do you think there’s a difference between, say, a dominant POC using race play on a caucasian person vs a dominant caucasian using it on a POC? Or is that even possible, to do race play on a caucasian?
Do you think it’s one of those taboo, should-never-happen-EVER things? Is it better or worse than Nazi role play?
What do you think you might feel if you witnessed a scene where a dominant white male was calling a submissive black female a “n*gger bitch”?
Is consent from both parties all that is needed to make it “ok”?
Do you think, if race play was practiced openly at parties (I’ve never seen it. Not that I’m the voice of dungeon etiquette by any means, I’m just saying, I’ve never seen it at public parties.), it would somehow do damage in the same way that certain feminists swear all of us submissive women are setting feminism back 30 years?
Do you think a caucasian who enjoys race play with poc is a closet racist?
(Ummm… asking for a friend.)
When I left here to go to my parents, the njoy stayed here. A whole month with nothing stuck in my ass means I’m practically revirginized, right? Right.
So I was discussing with Master the need to start slow. You know, slowly reintroduce the 24/7 trauma of the njoy and ease me back into anal rapey goodness.
He agreed that a month was a long time to have been without and that I could probably use some gentleness in that area. He is, after all, a kind and caring dom. It turned out that he had to leave for work almost as soon as we got home and were getting settled in. It’s not a long trip, a week or so maybe, but he felt this would be a good time for me to work back into the 24/7 butt plug wearing he enjoys so much.
I asked him what the new schedule would be, this “easing” back into it. Perhaps an hour or so, to start?
He’d mulled it over, he said, patting me on the head. The first day- and here he beamed, so pleased with his own kindness- I would ONLY have to wear it for 12 hours. After that, 24 hours a day.
And then he waited to be thanked. For being so thoughtful.
When all I did was blink at him he said, You’re welcome, cunt.
What’s funny is that he’s completely 100% serious in believing he’s being benevolent. And while part of me is thinking, dude, you are so whacked… the other part knows that the real benevolence is that I was home and he didn’t slam his dick up my revirginized asshole. He’s giving me 12 hours, and then some, to get ready.
He really IS a kind and caring dom. Huh. Who knew.
It’s been a bit, hasn’t it? Thank you for the messages and support.
Gosh, where to begin? I wish I had some sexy tale of having been at slave camp, naked and abused and fucked to titillate you with, but alas, I have nothing that exciting. I was at my parents in Illinois, doing dutiful daughter duties.
I think I last ended here by saying my dad had fallen. And he did. From the top of an extension ladder onto a concrete floor. He suffered a compound fracture to his elbow – crushed it, actually, and shattered his knee cap. There was a few days of waiting on information, he switched hospitals twice before anything was done. The first one, the one nearest to them, said both injuries were too complicated so they referred him to the V.A. Hospital. Once there, that surgeon also felt the surgeries would be too complicated so they moved him to the University of Iowa Hospital. He fell on Wednesday morning- he went into surgery to fix the breaks on SATURDAY. Can you imagine?
Anyway, he ended up with many pins and screws and wires in both his knee and his elbow. He also had a lateral crack in the hand opposite the broken arm, but they didn’t do anything about that. From the beginning he’d been complaining about stomach pain but xrays were clear so they dismissed it.
For 7 days.
Until his bowel ruptured.
He was then rushed into emergency surgery, they removed a section of his intestines, he ended up in ICU, medically sedated and on a respirator- and that’s when I left here and went there.
My mom, up to that point, hadn’t left his side. At all. She hadn’t eaten (because she couldn’t get to the cafeteria), she wasn’t taking her meds (because she couldn’t get to them), she was sleeping sitting upright in a chair. Her legs had swollen and her gout had flared so badly she couldn’t walk.
I have a lot of unpleasant thoughts about the family members who live nearby and their… inadequate actions. A lot of anger, actually.
I was getting bits of information, incomplete information, up to that point. They (siblings) would assure me they were doing one thing, and when I’d get the chance to talk to my mom, she’d tell me something else. I was relying on the family members for information because my mom’s cell phone was spotty, she was out of her mind with worry and scattered and stressed. She’s 73 and in poor health herself.
I was livid when, on the Saturday of my dad’s first major surgery, an 8 hour long procedure, NOBODY went to the hospital to be with her. She sat in his empty room, unable to walk or go anywhere. Worried, scared. Alone. I tried to talk her into going to a hotel, offered to pay for it over the phone, everything. She wouldn’t leave him. I knew it was because she was afraid to do it alone, but I couldn’t get any of the family to stay there with her.
But it’s easy for me to sit in judgement from where I am, right? Far away, removed from any responsibility. I was itching to go from the very beginning. But… slave.
I’m not going to paint Master in a bad light here. His objections were entirely legitimate. Why did I have to drive all the way from Houston when there are at least 15 capable family members living literally within 10 minutes of my parents. Why did he have to give up his slave, fund the trip, absorb the hassle of animal care (and serve himself, do his own laundry, suck his own dick…) (I kid, I kid.) (….mostly.)
The simple answer is because they weren’t doing what needed to be done. Next question?
Or, at least it was that simple to me. It took him a little bit longer to get there, and it took a little bit of me getting upset about it. It took me reminding him that my DAD was in ICU on a RESPIRATOR. Now am I leaving right now or what?
Why yes, yes I am. He’s not a bad guy- Master, that is. I think he just wanted it to not be as serious as it was. He wanted to not have his life or time interrupted.
Anyway. I got there. Am had come to visit me just prior to all this so she went with me. There are ‘family rooms’ that you can rent right there in the hospital. They are pretty much exactly like small hotel rooms. Beds, private bath with shower, mini fridge. There were even laundry facilities and a snack room with full size fridge and microwave, coffee pots, vending machines. So I paid for a week, got my mom into a shower and into bed, set Am to stay in the room with her, and sat up the whole night in my dad’s room. The only reason my mom wouldn’t leave is because she wouldn’t leave him alone. Just… in case… you know? I knew she’d go if someone was there with him. Nobody else was willing to sit there all night.
My mom was in bad shape. She was getting confused- lack of sleep and lack of food and lack of taking her medications, most likely. She was shaky, she looked terrible. My mom, like I said is 73 years old. She has never- not ever- spent a night anywhere alone. Not in her own house, even. She’s either had my dad or her kids at home. Her anxiety level was through the roof.
I mean, she was afraid he was going to die. And he could have. Did I also mention he had a pulmonary embolism? That the reason he was on a respirator is because they couldn’t get his oxygen level out of the 80’s, that his blood pressure kept rocketing to 180/100.
They don’t put someone into ICU, medically sedate them and attach them to a respirator for funsies.
He could have died. Legit.
SO WHERE WAS EVERYONE? THE FUCK.
It took a few days of meals and sleep and getting her medications before my mom started to look and feel normal again. She broke down and cried several times over the course of my visit because she was just so relieved to have someone there. The hospital is HUGE. Really, really huge. How anyone thought my mom, who can barely walk around a grocery store on a good day, was going to navigate that hospital on her own is beyond me. I wish I would have taken my fitbit with me to see how many miles I logged in a day, pushing her from our room to the cafeteria to the ICU, multiple times a day. It was many, I bet. Many miles.
I even got her out of the hospital a few times to go to Wal-mart to buy supplies, or to grab a bite of non-cafeteria food. Just for a change of pace. Fresh air. By then my dad had been taken off the respirator and moved from ICU to intermediate care (the intermediate care wing is also the burn unit, and there was a child.. maybe 2 years old, a burn victim, and I had to listen to that baby cry and scream and beg for his mommy and daddy all night long and it broke my heart, y’all. So sad.)
After a week, to the day, my dad was being released to a nursing home. That was pretty good progress I thought. From ICU to discharge in a week? Go Team Dad!
You might be thinking that since he was out of immediate danger, I could have headed home then, right? Of course not. Because my mom was going home then, and that presented a whole nother set of problems.
See, my parent’s house was built probably in the 1920’s. Or thereabouts. A long damn ago, anyway. My dad has literally rebuilt the entire house, room by room, gutting it to the studs. They’ve lived there for 30-some years. He’s still doing reno. Or.. he was. Anyway, the house had never been set up for a furnace. They’ve heated with a wood stove for forever.
They did install a furnace, several years ago. And then never used it. I suppose my dad knew that someday he’d have to give up wood cutting so he’d better have a contingency plan. But the furnace didn’t work, and there wasn’t the ductwork to run it anyway.
So. Now my dad has a broken arm and a broken leg. And not just a simple bone break, but a shattered, wired-together mess of joints. And had major abdominal surgery, with an incision literally from nipples to groin. And my mom can barely carry a gallon of milk- and that’s IF she can walk that day at all. So who’s going to haul that wood and feed the fire so they don’t freeze all winter? Hey! How about all those family members that live nearby.
Anyway. I got a furnace guy out there. He came back with an estimate of a few grand. $2200.00, in fact. Repair the furnace, run ductwork, put in a thermostat, blah blah. I also needed to have their propane tank filled up. That was an additional $300.
My parents have 6 kids. There are 17 grandchildren ranging in age from 19 to 37. Of the ones who were willing to help out with the furnace, kids and grandkids, we split it and we each had to give almost $400. You do the math.
My parents could have maxed out their credit card or taken a loan and fixed it themselves. They knew it had to be done now with everything going on. I didn’t want that. Who knows what other expenses they will have now, or what might crop up because of the accident. I wanted to do this for them because they’ve always always gone above and beyond for all of us.
We could have paid for it in full ourselves, too. But why the fuck should we have to? I’m not an only child.
The sad thing is that my 3 kids, no joke the poorest of them all, each donated 100 bucks to get the propane filled.
Out of 23 working, financially capable adult family members, it was only my kids, one sister, and three nieces who covered the bulk of the cost, with another sister and a nephew pitching in what they could afford.
It’s not just the money, not really. It was the lack of visits or phone calls. The empty offers to help and then not doing anything. The almost complete dismissal of the seriousness of the situation. My dad is (or was, anyway) unable to get to the bathroom without help, literally just off his death bed, and someone wants to know if they are still hosting Christmas dinner.
Are you fucking kidding me?
Someone else wants to know if my mom can babysit? Or, hey.. do you need help with the chickens or do you got it? Like, seriously.
I’ve pretty much disowned my entire family by this point.
Master even took his last two weeks of vacation and drove all the way up there to help out. And also to spend the holidays with me because I wasn’t going to make it home in time. Because of the holidays, the furnace guy couldn’t even get out there to do the work until after Christmas and regardless of my dad being out of danger of dying, my mom still had no heat except the fire, which she couldn’t do herself, nor could she manage the chickens. Hauling 4 and 5 gallons of water out to the coop every day, filling up the feed containers. They have 25 chickens, that’s a lot of work for an old woman. In the winter when it’s cold and icy and she can hardly walk. But no, it’s okay guys, she’s got it.
My dad made it home. On Christmas Eve. To a hospital bed that’s set up in the living room. He’ll get physical therapy at home, thanks to the V.A. He’s on blood thinners for the clot in his lungs, and pain meds of course. He can get up by himself, and walk- slowly, painfully- with a cane. He was just getting good enough to go up the stairs when we left on New Year’s Day. He’ll recover. Not overnight. Maybe not even ever fully. He’s no spring chicken, and they were incredibly awful complicated breaks that he suffered. His stomach still pains him more than the breaks combined. A perforated bowel isn’t something you just shrug off.
I’ll drive back up there tomorrow if I have to. Because that’s what you DO. Or at least what you should do.
I was there a month to the day. It’s good to be home.
I was so hoping Master would have forgotten about the whole ‘ask permission to use the bathroom’ thing but no. No he hasn’t.