My sister should not be drinking. In 2004 she was hospitalized; her liver was severely damaged by drinking rum and taking handfuls of ibuprofen because of "broken ribs". (The number of broken ribs increased over time until she had more broken more ribs than the human chest contains.) The booze and ibuprofen were to dull the pain of these broken ribs. End result: an abdomen distended with ascites fluid, which the liver produces when it's about to implode.
My sister had 8% of liver function after this episode.
One can assume that in the intervening years her liver has healed somewhat, but last spring she got back on the sauce until she turned yellow--so it's not all that great a liver. It's better than nothing, but it can't handle a lot of alcohol any longer.
She's been drinking since her husband died; and Saturday night she threw a huge pity party and decided to get drunk.
My adventure started at 6 AM EST Sunday morning, when my sister woke me out of a sound sleep and told me that I "wasn't helping her". Reason? I hadn't bought ice the last time I'd gone to the store! And I had slept for "nineteen hours" the day before. The discussion rapidly degenerated from there.
End result? Well, I got tossed out into the snow. She wouldn't so much as give me the phone number of the limosine service that had brought me there from the airport. "Get the fuck out. I'm not giving you anything. Get the fuck out."
She implied that she'd call the police on me if I didn't leave right away, so there I was, three miles from the nearest town, in 16° weather, with 90 lbs of luggage and a seven hundred foot hill between me and town. It took me two hours to get there, dragging my luggage over plowed roads and having to stop to rest frequently due to the hill climb.
Thanks to my oldest sister and my brother--and the miracle of cell phone technology--by the time I got to town, I had a cab on its way. The place with the WiFi hotspot was open so I had a warm place to wait, and I was even able to get some breakfast. (Yeah, I didn't have any food, either.)
(I'm the youngest of four. The sister in Maine was child #2.)
The trip to Portland cost $145. The airline charged me $165 to change my itinerary. From the time I was rudely awakened until I got home was sixteen hours. On two hours of sleep.
There are certain things which you simply do not do. Stranding someone in the middle of nowhere in the middle of winter is one of them. It is, in the words of my oldest sister, heinous.
I'm done helping my sister in Maine. I'm done with it. I took three weeks of unpaid leave in order to be there for her, and I got thrown out into the snow over a bag of ice. I am furious enough over this that I won't even help someone else help her: the next time she needs Mom to send her money, I won't take Mom to the bank.
My sister can go pound sand.
* * *
The good part of the whole thing is that I was able to get home without enduring too much discomfort or having to pay too much money. My legs are a mass of aches from hauling the luggage over that goddamned hill, and I'm still exhausted from doing all that on two hours of sleep and a lot of adrenaline. (Anger is great motivation.)
So here I sit, with 15 days left in my leave of absence, and I'm not sure what to do. I suppose I'll cut the thing short and start work next week, once all the soreness in my muscles goes away. It's not like I have anything else to do.