It’s winter here. Usually my favorite season. But this year, things hurt. I’m tired. I have no drive. My energy is permanently gone, it seems.

Yet another provider says they can help us, particularly taking care of my father. Which would be great, because if this happens, then just maybe the second surgery can be scheduled and I can heal. And then become a viable person again. Maybe.

But. Once again. Partially through the process. Approved. With a catch. Always a catch. So we wait yet again. Hopefully this time we’ll get help.

I can’t physically take care of myself, let alone him. Nevermind the house. I can kind of take care of the dogs. Mostly they take care of themselves now. Except for things like food. And going out a million times a day. And cleaning up the messes. Especially the ones his dog makes.

Zoose makes a lot of messes. He’s a little mess factory.

And there are the messes my father makes.

If you think a 20# chihuahua has a lot of poop, try a 170# man. And both of leave their marks on the floor. Dad can’t even make it the 10′ from his bed to the commode, let alone down the hall to the bathroom. Sometimes leaving a trail of poo or pee on the way.

And so I get to clean up the floor, at least once a day, sometimes five or six times. A day.

And yet, we don’t qualify for help. Why? Because of rules. The right-wing nut jobs whine about how unfair life is, and get thousands, or even hundreds of thousands, of dollars donated to them.

As a liberal, I don’t get donations. Why? Because Dems donate to the politicians and charities, not the people. As far as I can tell, the thinking is that if we finally get the good politicians in place, the people don’t need each other’s help. The politicians will take care of us. And the charities assess who’s truly worthy, then doles funds and services out accordingly.

But here we are. My father’s needs require help I cannot give. Afterall, even my physical issues qualify for assistance. It’s just that nothing and no one seems to take into consideration that there is no other caregiver for either of us.

Thus neither of us is deemed sufficiently worthy to definitely get help. If we were alone, we might be. But we’re not. We’re in the same building. Him on his floor, me on mine.

And here we are, shit outta luck.

Everything hurts. I’m exhausted. I don’t have time to take care of things. And I certainly don’t have time to gather the desired information the way each group needs it this time. Because it’s always just a bit different. We can’t just re-send informeation that went to the prior group that might’ve been able to help but fell through.

Nope.

Even if I had the time, I don’t have the physical ability to do most of these things. Which of course means what little I can do takes more time. Usually a lot more time. Plus even more time to recover from trying to do these things.

Which hurts even more. And makes me even more tired.

Meanwhile, what dad wants is company. I should just drop all of it to sit with him in his bedroom, with the commode full of man poop, and the dog poop piled up down the hall.

Quite frankly, FML would be a major improvement.