More of the same

24 02 2014

A few days later I received a drunken call from Mort at three in the morning. He had been staying at some sort of a ‘half-way’ house and had sliced open his foot while climbing a fence. Apparently badly, to the bone. I didn’t care in normal hours and I cared even less at 3am.

The next day I got a call from a nurse at the public hospital asking for Mort’s whereabouts. He had gotten checked into the hospital and he was scheduled for surgery on his foot that day. He had been ranting about leaving behind his backpack at the halfway house and then disappeared. Doc did some investigating and discovered that Mort had gone AWOL for several hours and turned back up at the hospital staggeringly drunk.

Elevating the craziness to alcohol induced injuries prompted me to go and meet with a family lawyer. Given the no-fault law I would be unable to apply for a divorce for a year (dated from his last day in the house), but I wanted to check out the possibility of applying for a restraining order and custody of the girls. The lawyer sat there with mouth agape listening to the diligently documented previous months events. She said in her 30 years of family law she had never heard of such a rapid deterioration of an alcoholic. Sure she had heard of similar events but not happening with such warp speed.

Doc had organised that Mort would be admitted to a rehabilitation centre as an in-patient in 4 days time. I was encouraged to go and see Mort in hospital and tell him of the plans. It wasn’t a fun visit.

I noticed that they had him in a room that had a monitoring camera. Clearly he had caused quite a stink, literally and figuratively, when he returned drunk before his foot surgery and they were keeping an eye on things.

I informed him that he was to turn up sober at the facility on Friday at 10am for admittance. I had to repeat it several times and write it on a piece of paper because he wouldn’t shut up asking why I wouldn’t let him back to the house. As I left I picked up my heavy purse and swung it over my shoulder accidentally hitting his bandaged up foot. He let out a pathetic yelp as I left the room and then he yelled out “how about saying your sorry.”

It took all my strength not to go back in that room and beat him senselessly with the crutch leaned up against the wall.



Bundling up the baggage

6 02 2014

That night I received umpteen dozen messages varying from the totally pathetic “what have I done wrong” crap to the “why have you done this to me” diatribe. Whatever the tone, the message was the same. He was going to come by the house the next day.

I figured it was a good time to start getting rid of the baggage, literally and figuratively. The former involving giant garbage bags and a few hours in the closet. As I started cramming his clothes into the bags, my girls came into the closet to see what I was up to. I stood there with a bulging garbage bag spewing out the contents of Mort’s cupboards as I told them that Mort wouldn’t be living with us at the house. There was maybe a 5 second silence and then Clare scooped up a pile of his t-shirts and crammed them into the bag exclaiming, “look how much more room you will have in this closet, you can really spread out now,” and on that cue Maddie started filling the empty spaces with my shoes (*).

When he arrived the next day he was irritated that I met him outside, standing next to a pile of stuffed garbage bags with no intention of letting him in the house. He stomped about trying to assert that it was his house as well and that he wanted to go in. I pointed out that given the past few months along with recent revelations that he was extremely fortunate that I hadn’t lit a bonfire out of all his crap on the front lawn (scenes from “War of the Roses” played in my head). This coupled with the fact that legally his name is not on the house deed, he was not getting in that house. He then attempted to change tack into ‘poor me’, as you have gathered that isn’t my soft spot either.

I slammed the door and left him ranting to himself, lugging the garbage bags like a homeless person. Nostradamus armed with a crystal ball and tea-leaves couldn’t have prognosticated this scene more clearly.

photo credit:

photo credit:

(*) Interesting note with the shoes. Mort was not a great fan of me in high heels (he had zero fashion sense and thought heels were a bit ‘showy’), not surprising that I now have a penchant for fabulous high heels…..”hello my pretties”.