Priests and Doctors

   
   "Priests and Doctors"
   
  I begged for years to get that pseudo-caretaker out of here.  Coming over with horrible coughs at times, spitting in the sink; next, attempting to make Mom a greasy meal lathered in contagion when phenomena is a predator.  Going across the street to a near 90 year old woman and weeping, telling her nobody is doing anything, and they're going to get Mom sick, and they put on the ID channel in front of a woman with hallucinations, her having the blanket over her head, crying:  "I think I murdered somebody."  And I voted for Obama--just once.  Throwing towels at my face, calling me a fool, scrawny, asking if they could trip me, telling me not to back up or a knife will go into my back, my step-dad laughing; furthermore, the peach pit with the dog, and her always saying:  "I watch ID, cause I'll know how to commit a crime and get away with it."  Nobody would listen.  Quit complaining.  But nobody was here anyway--even then.  After the phony diagnosis, they all ran from the storm.
   Next one comes in, playing sick and unfriendly songs with vociferously loud lyrics, like:  "Motherfucker!  Motherfucker!"  Talking thug-like on their cell while turning Mom's television down, me watching like a hawk with tears.  And they all blew me off, the only words I heard from them were:  "Xanax--get me another Xanax!"  5 Haldol a day, when the bottle said only 4--I tossed them a while back, right in the garbage can.    
   I told him what I was going to do.  Still, he didn't listen or care; then, I have his cold steel under my skull; next, run away to Arkansas, but I couldn't leave Mom in death's macabre and twisted grip--coming home the next day, confessing to my Priest, and telling the Doctor--he wanted to call Social Services, and the Nurse backed him up.  We talked, I got over it.  Took the threats, and Mom out as much as I could to keep her away.  All documented.  Going through 2 surgeries, blood loss, chronic pain, sleep deprivation, with no help.  Every morning for more than half a decade getting her up, still do, dressing her, changing her, feeding her, showering, brushing, and actually talking to her, because nobody else did, them giving her the silent treatment, as if she is a corpse when the woman breathes.
   Mother of God, help us.  Wore out a set of blessed Rosary Beads.  Always praying with Mom; them telling me not to talk to Mom; I can't get through to her.  Telling me not to talk with a woman who gets no TOUCH.  They cut off physical therapy two years ago.  Now I do that, stretching her every morning.  And they load up on me, a million against one, because I know what it's like to be sick and dying.  I've been there, more than once.  Yet you soldier up.  You do everything to stay alive.  But like one family member told me after my hypoglycemia was dragging me down, and aimed these cruel comments at myself and my medical conditions:  "Mark, everybody has got to die sometime."     
   Gimping around, Mom in one hand, and Rosary Beads in the next.  I never failed her.  Never have given up, and won't for a lady who was there for me.  And there's more, but why bother.  They've had us both buried for years, play-acting to save their hides.  Two sick people, and they're play-acting, like bad-acting torture.