The last years of Dad's life were trashed by Big Pharma and multiple Flozberk power struggles.

The last weeks of Dad's life were further trashed by Flozberk corruption and idiocy as our conflict heated up. 

The last days of Dad's life were the most shocking and stressful of my life, by far, while also blessing me with one of the most beautiful and fulfilling. I still have trouble wrapping my mind around how it played out.

A Difficult Year 
2018 was marred by a power struggle between me and Neila in which she ruthlessly defamed my character with allegations that have been proven inaccurate and tried, unsuccessfully, to marginalize us from Dad's life. Dad, a mostly-sensible man, was not in tune with her conduct. For a while, she kept a tenuous hold on her control of him, but eventually, as I knew she'd do, she hung herself with her own rope.

Going into this final stretch, let's consider the setting:

- The Flozberks had a catastrophic history with youngers, elders, siblings, and even woofers.
- They lived in the hippest neighborhood in town and drove a Caddy despite no reliable means of support.
- They were very secretive, witholding from Dad important information about not only themselves, but his own affairs.
- They almost totally resisted cooperating with me.
- They were years behind on their mortgage.
- Neila had power of attorney Dad had no recollection of signing and roundly detested.
- Neila liquidated the $1M stock portfolio providing the vast majority of Dad's income and put the money in an account she controlled.
- Ryan had recently been arrested with a bunch of drugs and a gun and faced serious prison time.

Other than that, though, everything was more or less kind of OK, I guess.

Now we examine a period spanning the last 4 weeks of Dad's life:

Sunday, December 16, 2018: Silly Ass
The Neila's Silly Ass incident, a conflict between my girlfriend Lisa and The Sue Chef at Dad's that was partially captured on video. Neila made an ass of herself and came off absolutely horribly.

The existential depantsing she wreaked upon herself pushed Dad toward our side.

Wednesday, December 19: Steven Wilson 
The Steven Wilson Ambush, a conflict between me/Lisa vs. Neila/Tiffany that marred our most treasured day - Steven Wilson Day. We arrived as scheduled at Dad's before the gig to make him dinner and Those Flozberks were there waiting with a clumsy plan to cause us trouble. They both made asses of themselves and came off absolutely horribly.

The existential depantsing they wreaked upon themselves pushed Dad more toward our side. 

Thursday, 20: Wilson Mulligan
We thank our lucky stars for another Steven Wilson gig three hours south at the excellent Houston House of Blues. I didn't know it at the time, but it was my final concert in Life v1.x, a 41-year stretch of hundreds of shows starting with Led Zeppelin when I was just 9.

After the gig, we hopped south to Galveston, I got tanked up at Rum Shack and we strolled on the beach. It was the first time I'd gotten drunk in years, ain't done it again since. It's just not my cup of rum.

Steven Wilson is the smartest person on Earth. The live music part of Life v1.x ended on the highest note possible with a stunning show, one of the best I've seen. The last song of the set, the last song of the thousands of great performances in my Life v1.x, was the lovely, dreadfully bleak "The Raven that Refused to Sing," about - get this - a man who lost his sister!

I swear, ya just can't make some stuff up.

I'm unable to watch the end of that Houston gig without being elevated to tears. Steven has called it the best song he's ever written. A more superbly crafted and profoundly topical end to that part of my journey would be impossible.

Thank you so much, Steven and band.

Friday, 21: Neila Is Uncharacteristically Communicative 
Soon after we awakened to cool ocean air, Neila lit up both our phones via voice and text. Apparently, Dad was waiting to talk to us. The big news was that The Flozberks would be taking over our scheduled Saturday with Dad the next day. We were planning to have a nice pre-Xmas meal of fried oysters and watch It's a Wonderful Life.

That was a bummer, but fine - a more leisurely return from the coast and a very rare Saturday all to ourselves was not unwelcome. Knock yerselves out, Flozzies.

Monday, 24: A Black Plate n' Smashed Rat Hee Haw  Xmas 
Dad's final Xmas and surely his most sparse, numbers-wise:  just me, him, and Tasha. The poor dog neared the end of her life. War between Neila and me loomed. Lisa was stricken ill and couldn't attend, but still kicked out the best replica of Dad's venerable turkey and dressing we'd ever had.

It was a great time under trying circumstances. Dad ate and drank the most I'd seen in months. We enjoyed YouTube clips of Hee Haw, the only TV show outside of news, Arkansas sports, and The Three Stooges I recall him having devotion to. He was amazed that I could conjure up Hee Haw from my laptop and display them on his TV.

Even Mom had fun watching that stuff with us back in the 70s. The running gags "Gloom, Despair, & Agony on Me" and "You Were/Wuz Gone" were loved by us all, especially Mom, who would heave wonderful deep belly laughs at every anguished moan from "Gloom..." and raspberry from "...Gone."

Dad and I had a blast revisiting those simple pleasures from 4 decades ago. And, not so simple was our emphasis on the legendary Roy Clark, arguably the greatest musician in history.

I got Dad and Tasha three gifts. Two trap-crushed rats - one for each of them - and a black plate for food that was hard for Dad to see on his white plate. I caught the rats in the garage attic after seeing them dart in through a hole in the eave, then patched the hole.

Our last Xmas together was great and it being the first in which we didn't have to listen to John and/or Neila's fucking bullshit made it all the sweeter. Given the occasion, we didn't sully it by talking about The Flozberks, but I could tell Dad was often deep in thought. It seemed some recent occurrence(s) had gotten his wheels turning hard.

I suspect certain people had made asses of themselves and came off absolutely horribly, wreaking an existential depantsing on themselves that pushed Dad yet even more toward our side.

Friday 28: The Flozberks Have at Last Been Kept Up With
The Flozzies tore through at least $172,539.04 of Dad's money in a mere 26 months. The actual number is substantially higher. John nailed them for a similar amount before his exile. During that time, in desperate need of a mere $4,000 loan for surgery, I was thrown to the dogs.

Dad damn sure noticed, and once he took the helm, he immediately acted to make things right. Even after Neila threw a fit over it, he insisted on continuing to completion.

In a process ordained by Dad I dubbed "Keeping Up With the Flozberks," I spent 45 months chasing parity. with desperately-needed health care taking up a big chunk of the adventure. That completion of that quest awaited me on a pleasant winter afternoon as only $22.57 stood between me and resolution. A trip to the gas pump and it would be over, then not another penny of Dad's money would I seek until after his death.

I was quite excited about it, but sometimes the fickle finger of fate wears yoga pants.

As I pumped the fuel and neared the target number, one Miss Yoga Butt spryly hopped from the car at the next pump. Never have I seen anyone wear stretch pants so well. It was dev-ass-tating, matching her perfect face and hair. Miss Universe would have trembled before her.

Perhaps best of all, up front there was some camelto...

NOOOOOOOOO!!!! $22.65! I went over by eight cents! Damn you, Miss Yoga Butt!

It was the most anticlimactic moment of my life.

A pic of Miss Yoga Butt's butt surely would ease the pain, but she was a brisk mover and sped away in her fittingly sexy little convertible as I fumbled with my phone. Damn your tiny gas tank, Miss Yoga Butt!

A shot of the gas pump would have to suffice.

The next day, I left an explanatory essay for The Flozberks on Dad's table. Attached to it was a solid nickel to square things away, leaving a one cent cushion.

Tuesday, January 1, 2019: A Very Happy New Year 
Dad called with expected holiday well-wishes and delighted me with a request that I consult  with my attorney Peter, a very distinguished professional and ethical gentleman. No problem - I was long locked and loaded to do so.

We actually had an appointment with him 4 months before, but Neila learned of it and hammered Dad until he caved back into the submissive fealty The Flozberks so relied upon. He had me cancel the meeting.

Clearly now, though, recent behavior by The Flozberks had Dad very concerned. I asked him what brought on the change and his careful answer was, "Well, several things." Gently pressed for details, he would only say that we'd maybe talk about it later.

I'm certain The Flozzies, their grip on Dad slipping, hatched a plot to retain power and diminish me and Lisa, but it flopped and upset Dad badly. He was normally quite forthcoming with me, and the only reason we could imagine for his coyness was that the details were so bad that he feared I'd go over there and snap some Flozzie necks upon learning them.

Of course, that was not a concern - I was way too busy and worn out to be indulging in any neck snappin', see.

Wednesday, January 2: Arkansas Makes a Stand 
I clearly and fairly explained the situation and The Flozberks' history to Peter and he was of the opinion that we had a serious matter afoot needing attention. As Dad's son and only child, I had a solemn duty to act, and everyone except The Flozzsters has agreed.

Everyone.

After a serious talk with Dad, he wanted to revoke Neila's power of attorney that, again, he, a blind man with all his marbles, neither recalled signing nor would knowingly sign. He would then consider giving PoA to someone else, likely me, once we got things rolling.

Very dissatisfied with his massive, confusing, risky last will and testament, a copy of Mom's from years ago made in cahoots with Neila, he wanted a new will that provided for a simple, 50/50 split between me (his son) and Neila (Aydin's daughter), Seems more than fair.

We were advised to document with great immediacy and diligence. Dad wanted to make more videos to substantiate every aspect of my account and head off every conceivable hatchet job angle against me.

From recent antics of significance like Tiffany's insane accusations in The Monster Clash to the less-gravitas-laden Princess Corn Log story to older things like Mutchie's poor dog and Neila running around naked in front of me like a kook, we sought to systematically set the record straight and craft a nine pound hammer to counter the inevitable Flozberk denials and hatcheteering.

It was a simple case of a good man protecting his son from people with an outrageous history of bad behavior. Now, every moment the Flozberks weren't around would be spent in diligent pursuit of our goals and finally, after well over 50 years, The Arkansas Bunch would stand up to The Istanbul Bunch in a meaningful way.

Saturday, 5: TDNSAWRoHSIGPoA Day 
Ah, yes - The Day Neila's Silly Ass Was Relieved of Her Seemingly-Ill-Gotten Power of Attorney Day. Yeah, I know the two instances of "Day" are a tad redundant.

The notary came to Dad's and we got acquainted. I explained the situation and made sure she had ample opportunity to ascertain Dad was competent and not under duress. As a mobile notary back in the 1990s, I knew all too well how people would try to get signatures absent competence and regularly rejected sketchy jobs.

Chalk up one huge sigh of relief.

Monday, 7: Filed! 
First in line and positively beaming, I filed the revocation of power of attorney with the county. Walking back to the car was the nicest stroll in downtown I could recall.

Another huge sigh of relief. Dad's was even bigger, accompanied by a "Thank God." He just plain did not want that sleazy loon Neila in charge of his life. No sane person would.

That evening we accomplished much and agreed that, before escalating to officially lawyerin' up and after almost a year of pleading, we'd give Neila one last chance to cease her foolishness and work with us to straighten things out, coexist, and prevent the very end of Dad's life from continuing to be a nightmare.

Dad was hopeful. Me, less so.

Tuesday, 8: "Fabulous!" 
That morning I was waiting for The Flozberks at Dad's. Yes, I politely informed Neila first via text - it's just not cool  to ambush people.

They arrived, I told Reagan it was nice to see him. He, reliably a gentleman, reciprocated. We were very fond of one another for a long, long time. I told them I had some questions and started with the most important one - how is Ryan, their sickly junkie son, doing?

“Fabulous!” Neila acerbically snapped through her trademark synthetic, creepy smile.

Of course, that was more of her bullshit. An overprivileged junkie in the miserable county lockup facing grave state prison felony charges and beset by health woes from dirty needles is hardly fabulous. While I certainly didn't expect her to be sincere and spill her guts to us, I couldn't help but be impressed by the sheer level of vigor and venom in her transparent lying.

I grabbed my clipboard, but Neila angrily declared she'd be answering none of my and Dad's questions and stormed out, blabbing something about attorneys, her lapdog Reagan faithfully and silently in tow. Dad yelled to her to come back, but essentially received a middle finger in reply, which pissed us both off something awful. One should not EVER walk out on Dad - he deserved better, always.

As they left, I yelled that her power of attorney had been revoked.

Dad, fuming, asked what we should do next. I suggested a visit to the bank, PoA revocation in hand. He agreed.

The visit with Dad's (and, uh, Neila's) banker, Thom, an insufferable, greasy sissy with a used car salesman air about him, went poorly. Staring daggers at me, he shoved the POA revocation back at us without reading and refused to give Dad statements or substantial information about his own money, over $1,000,000.

We calmly left the tense, civil meeting. Dad was very upset and wanted to speak with an attorney, so I gave Peter a heads-up and we headed north.  After very detailed consultation, he reiterated that we had a legitimate serious concern and we made an appointment to act the next day.

Peter, an excellent attorney and just plain good guy, made damn sure Dad was competent and acting freely.

Wednesday, 9: A Busy (Final) Day 
I arrived at Dad's as planned, but there was a twist - a caregiver, a nice lady and longtime associate of Neila's named Joyce, was there. Dad and I retired to his bedroom and he affirmed our plans from yesterday.

Joyce was mildly resistant to leaving, planning to stay until Neila arrived at 1500h, but nobody would be there and Tasha didn't like her, tailing and barking at her whenever she moved. Stress is awful for a sick, old dog and I explained that to Dad. He told me to send Joyce packing and I summoned Lisa to come stay with Tasha.

That's Dad's house, not Neila's (or Joyce's, LOL), and what he says goes. Had she continued to resist leaving, I would have physically thrown her ass out without hesitation.

I informed Neila of our plans and invited her to dinner to talk.

2019-01-09 12:13:14
Good afternoon. We have lunch and dinner today taken care of and have some errands to run. Ill be sending Joyce home as she's no longer needed today. Feel free to join us for dinner and chat.

There was, of course, no reply.

We went to the DPS to get Dad a new ID, for Neila had taken his without consent, then we went to the post office to learn about getting his mail back, which Neila had diverted to her house without his consent.

Peter met us at a different branch of the bank to recover Dad's funds and transfer them to a safe place. The greasy banker Thom got wind of that, hauled ass up the highway, and surprised us with an appearance, reminiscent of Mr. Drysdale from The Beverly Hillbillies, pleading with Dad to keep the mil in his bank. Dad refused.

Alas, despite having the PoA revocation, Dad present, and a badass attorney, we were unable to get a check that day. Dad was seriously pissed and decided to confer power of attorney upon me that evening and told me to fight. Bravo, Dad!

We made an appointment the following Monday to have Dad sign a new will in which the complex, absurd pro-Flozberk trust from Mom's 2015 will that was duplicated in Dad's would be replaced with a simple 50/50 split for a quick and fair resolution.

Upon returning home, I texted Neila:

2019-01-09 19:13:00
Dad is home now. I will send you an email tonight with all the details of what's going on. I have no interest in anything other than full disclosure and working cooperatively with you to produce the best results possible for Dad. I love dad very much and I love you very much and look forward to some spirit of cooperation between us, I'm just trying to do the best I can for all of us and give you my word that I have no nefarious goals whatsoever. I always wish you the best. Good night.

She replied:

20:08:48
I received your messages. Thank you.

I continued:

20:11:21
I mean every word from the heart. I will be looking out for your best interests and Dad's too I promise you on Lisa's life. I mean every word I truly do love you very much and worry about you every single day. I just stood what needs to be done and there will be a full explanation in your email inbox in the morning. I'm open to answer any question you have and work cooperatively with you and hey let's try and give Dad a great birthday. Thank you very much for your nice response.

I'm really not sure how I could have been any nicer or more forthcoming.

A Beautiful Night 
Somehow, we had fun on PoA day. Even at the crowded, unpleasant DPS office, we had a cool time. Waiting, we befriended a nice lady who, after hearing our story, related her own family power struggle tragedy and gave me her card, offering to testify regarding how sharp and committed Dad was that day.

He was so determined to take action and protect us and himself. I'd not seen him walk with such snap and resolve in years. It was wonderful.

I made sure Dad understood that the most important aspect of his giving PoA to me was the bestowment of his trust, His confidence meant the world to me and always will.

Our talk made him cry, something I'd never elicited from him. It was one of the most important days in both our lives, but, sadly, bitter, obtuse, butthurt Neila will always view it as a travesty.

We followed with a celebration dinner of Dad's beloved Lisa's eggs over easy with pagnotta toast and he ate with gusto not seen since Xmas. Lisa, sickened by stress from the week's turmoil, went home right after dinner. I too felt dreadful, but stayed and enjoyed the nicest conversation ever with Dad over a glass of wine.

He said he was sorry they abandoned us when Lisa was hurt and it would have gone differently had he any say. He complimented me on how well I fought through life on my bum leg without overly complaining or using it as an excuse and praised the things I'd managed to accomplish. I told him I was glad I got hurt, for it produced a perspective and character I rather like and beneficially changed the trajectory of my life.

I emphasized that the accident was all my fault, which it was, and profusely apologized for all the heat from Mom my daft negligence sent his way. That made him cry again. We were set free from some long-tenured ghostly demons.

I also assurred him that if The Flozwads tried to pull too much shit on me, I'd lay the wood to them "like a motherfucker."  He was cool with that.

Square 
For the first time in my five decade plunge through A Flozberk World, everything was square between two major players. It was one of those perfect late-game conversations that makes things right and sets the tone for the rest of one's life.

Leaving, I asked if he wanted to hit the sack and go lights-out, but he wanted to just sit there and think fer a spell. We had our most loving parting ever, ending with me telling him not to fall down and crack his noggin until at least Monday night, making for a good chuckle.

Exhausted, nauseous, and in a tizzy to go home, I suddenly backed off and just stared at the clouds, enjoying the cool breeze after being roasted in toasty old man conditions. I stepped to the side of the house and watched Dad through the window.

His posture was different. Instead of leaning forward and holding his arms across his body with his neuropathic fingers constantly in motion, as he often did when agitated, he was leaning back, arms in lap, fingers still and interlocked. It looked like a faint smile graced his face. The man was chill, no doubt about it.

After seeing Dad pushed around like a broom by The Istanbul Bunch for 40+ years, I stood there and beheld him as a patriarch in charge, doing what he needed to do and feeling the genuine respect of his only child and a great attorney he much liked. His dignity and heart were handed back to him after a tragically long absence. It was fabulous to be part of and something agenda-ruled ballbreakers like Mom and Neila would never dare grasp.

The next morning, he would have to deal with Neila. He'd assured me he was up to the challenge and didn't need me there. I think he was right. If she didn't stop acting the fool, he was actually gonna take out a restraining order and we were going to move in with him until his new caretaker(s) were in place. He was fed up with her foolishness.

After a few minutes of us simultaneously, yet separately with eight feet and a window between us, pondering our big day and the wacky road ahead, I went home and collapsed, happier and more deeply touched than I could remember being. The nightmare had at last pulled back some. I felt like I was floating as the heaviest sleep in weeks approached...

"Awwww...FUCK ME!" I bellowed after quickly sitting up. I promised Neila an email!

I try hard to always keep my word, so off to the desk I staggered, and, half-drooling while drinking coffee for the first time in 20 years, I took over two hours to kick out this very thorough, heartfelt work.

Thursday, 9: "I Am So Disappointed" 
At 0800 I scraped myself out of bed with a long day of serially-delayed-by-Flozberk-drama obligations at my throat and ample anxiety about Dad's morning showdown with The Sue Chef. There was already one superfluous comma-laden text from her:

2019-01-10 05:09:14
I am so disappointed you sent the caregiver home, yesterday. I hired 24-hour medically trained care due to his declining condition, and 3 previous falls.

Then, she got around to, uh, Dad:

He fell and the paramedics are bringing him to Baylor.

So, she opened by moaning about her precious disappointment, informed me of an important matter - the hiring of 24-hour care - well after the fact, and THEN finally saw clear to inform me that Dad was hurt.

No other info.

No more messages.

Even for a bitter fool like like Neila, that's bad. When they wanted to usurp that Saturday with Dad from us three weeks prior, she hit up both our phones via text and voice. For this? One text at 0509h starting with her favorite word - "I."

I responded as one would expect, right down the line:

08:13:45
I'm very sorry to read that. Its been over 3 hours since your message - might you have even a cursory description of Dad's injuries(s)? In fact, some such description in your first message would have been a nice touch - don't leave me hanging like that.

Dad was not going to be there all day and he preferred not to leave a stranger, especially one that stresses out his sick dog, in the house.

I was not informed of any 24 hour aspect - she CLEARLY told me she was there until 3pm.

I informed you dad was home immediately upon his return and the caregiver was free to return then. It seems improbable a caregiver would have prevented a fall that likely occurred when he arose to use the restroom. Am I missing something here?

And she responded as one would expect, right down the line:

08:24:08
You are. You didn't get home until 7:13, we had 3 caregivers doing 8 hour shifts.

Have you sent your explanation, as promised?

And yes, it has been over three hours, we expected you here 2.75 hours ago. We have been busy, you are not our priority- dad is. He has been seen by multiple doctors, getting various tests-- most have not come back. CT scan showed bleeding around the brain.

Trauma doctor just left, he is being admitted to ICU as a precaution.

Holy jumpin' catfish, what a complete, absolute, total bitch. My heart truly bleeds for her and hers.

Many issues with that message, and those before it:

1. What is it about 7:13 pm that is somehow magically prohibitive toward caregivers? If Joyce was supposed to leave at 1500h, does Neila's 3 x 8 hour claim not suggest an arrival around 2300h? How could us being gone from noon to dinnertime influence the later shifts of caregivers?

2. Had she bothered to inform about the caregivers, we would have helped to EASILY coordinate. I kept Neila informed the day before. Her refusal to cooperate with us was a constant, well-documented issue. Hell, we would have picked up a caregiver and invited 'em to dinner. I actually invited Neila to dinner that night! Instead, SILENCE from her until AFTER Dad got hurt, then she tried to blame it all on me.

3. It really sucked dragging myself out of bed to write her that promised explanation sent hours before, then having her ask if I'd sent it. How perfectly Neila. How about you check your Gmail on the very phone you're holding, you dreadful, dreadful woman?

4. As Dad's next-of-kin (by FAR) and-attorney-in-fact, I SHOULD have been their priority. That's exactly what needed to happen and what Dad would have wanted, but that doesn't matter to The Flozberks - it's what THEY want that matters.

5. Expecting me there "2.75 hours ago" after sending just one predawn text to one phone while I was halfway in a coma directly caused by actions I had to take due to Neila's obstinacy is outrageous.

6. The claim that the THREE of them were too busy to text details is shameful. They were not performing the tests on Dad and I'm painfully familiar with the hospital experience - waiting, followed by more waiting while watching others wait. As seen with Neila's "I didn't have time" lie in the Neila's Silly Ass video, she's floating a lie only a guilty autocrat or innocent toddler would stoop to trying. One of those fucks had the time to at least let me know what part of Dad's body was hurt.

7. The more gabapentin Dad took (a path I bitterly resisted), the more his legs would just go dead, causing him to fall. That result is well-documented across thousands of patients. Neila pushed Dad to take more and more gabapentin during the last weeks of his life and that very likely that was a factor his injury.

THIS is what it looks like when a heartless, desperate shrew is out to get you. Neila was trying to pin Dad's injury on me when in reality every aspect of her argument was spurious AND the circumstances that led to Dad being hurt were pointing squarely back at Neila, her behavior, and her pill-pushing crony hack doctor.

Even her asking me if I sent the promised explanation had a razor blade hidden in it - all she had to do was check her email instead of fishing for a way to get a hoped-for failure of mine documented. So very badly these people wanted me to be a liar, a failure, a thief, a scoundrel, but their wild shotgunning into the trees failed again and again.

I replied:

8:42:44
I can't be missing what I didn't know - why didn't you inform me of that significant development? You had all day to do so and we could have coordinated things.

What is Dad's status now in terms of discomfort, consciousness, lucidity, spirits, etc.?

I have things I must get done this morning.

Yes, I sent the promised explanation to your gmail addy at 1:10 this morning.

If Dad is going to be there for any more than a few hours, we need to coordinate a sequential presence, not a concurrent one, so we can have Tasha covered while having a loved one in his company as much as possible. With an hours notice if you need to leave, we will have someone there.

I understand that I'm not your priority, but a bit better communication certainly wouldn't hurt.

Wow. What a morning. After the disruptions of the last several days caused entirely by Neila's refusal to cooperate, I was firmly locked into a morning schedule involving a quaint activity a bit foreign to the Flozberks:

I had to go to work, see.

I replied:

08:52:29
One of us will be there shortly.

She, conveniently ignoring that most inconvenient question about why she didn't bother to coordinate the caregiver issue with me, replied:

08:55:53
He's resting peacefully. One of us will be with him at all times.

You are welcome to come and go as you please.

Did she really write that? She ignored a decidedly relevant question yet bothered to inform us that we are free to come and go? I swear, the nerve of these fucking autocrats.

At least on the next exchange she somehow managed to be informative without being a shithead.

08:58:51
Dad is going to be here for days

09:09:03
OK, thanks for that info. We have Tasha covered and will spend as much time at the hospital as we can. Thank you for being there.

As has been so often the case for many, many, many years, Neila's behavior during this monumentous time was patently gross.

Adios, Boss
Lisa hauled ass to the hospital and I threw myself together and leapt onto my work.

Dad seemed scuffed, yet OK, but after an imaging study, the orderly mishandled him, neglecting to support his injured head badly enough for Lisa and Tiffany to gasp at one another. Quickly, his lucidity waned and the lights went out.

Lisa sent me urgent messages and I yet again put off a customer who badly needed his hardware and rushed to Dad.

When I arrived, Neila and Reagan were gone - they were apparently off with a lawyer trying to find a way to violate Dad's wishes. Lisa had gone to Dad's to take care of Tasha. It was just me and Princess Corn Log. We got along OK, as we should have, considering that we were fond of one another for about 30 years before 2018.

We had a tense, uncomfortable, civil, sad coexistence in the hospital, with the five of us rotating and crossing paths. It was nice to substantially talk with my dear old friend Reagan for the first time in a year. His familiar, soothing voice and demeanor was a big help.

At times, Neila was superb, like when she got on the bed with unconscious Dad and lovingly thanked him for coming to Turkey and finding her about 55 years before. But, at times, she was disgusting, like when she told Dad that The Sultan of Sodomy, a creep he truly disliked, awaited him in heaven.

Even Dad's afterlife was degraded by arrogant, tone-deaf Neila.

Saturday, 12
Dad was not to recover. He was brought home to finish his perishment in the same bed where his vastly beloved wife had died 3-1/2 years before. The Flozberks, Dad's niece Marilyn, and Lisa and I were there.

That night, Langdon, aka Neila's Bitch aka Mr. Princess Corn Log, the newest member of our toxic waste dump of a family, quite badly mistreated Lisa, Dad's favorite person and part of our family for 18 years. He made that choice as Dad laid before them, dying, an appalling misstep without a shred of justification that would have made Dad livid.

It shan't be forgotten and he's lucky he didn't end up in line ahead of Dad to get hauled out of there on a stretcher.

Or, maybe not, for my grasp on competence was tenuous. The night before, functioning poorly, I dislocated three toes when I woke up to drain my radiator, so I was having a hard time walking and it hurt like hell while racked by exhaustion, years of trauma, and serious medical conditions I didn't yet know I had.

Enough.

After the Mr. Princess Corn Log disgrace, we left the scene to The Flozberks and limped home. I felt so ill that it was almost dissociative. I was vibrating. Or humming. Or something. And numb. It was surreal. Exhausted to the point of confusion, but couldn't shut down. Only a tranquilizer washed down by a double whiskey, a path I'm normally way disinclined to follow, were up to the task.

Sunday, January 13, 2019: Dad's Birthdeathday
Dad left us on his 88th birthday, killed by a closed head injury. Princess Corn Log texted the news:

2019-01-13 10:20:04
Grandpa Charlie passed away on his 88th Birthday. He had happy birthday sung to him, had prayers reAd to him, got shaved, and was surrounded by love.

10:32:03
Thank you we will be there shortly to tend to Tasha.

Lisa was crushed. I was, for many reasons I would come to grasp, curiously serene.

I'm glad I missed the birthday-singing-to-a-vegetable thing - The Istanbul Bunch were quite invested in and moved by dizzy theatrics and such. Much-more-grounded Dad, Lisa, and me, not so much.

The greasy foolishness began:

10:35:05
Tasha's fine and well taken care of. She's been great today.

10:37:24
I'm sure she is. We'd like to spend the day and night with her, tho. Dad was very explicit in his wishes about the pooch.

10:40:20
We'll be here, with her.

Oh, dear. So much for Dad's wishes. I guess we'll just see how the day plays out.

Nine minutes later, an interesting addition from Princess:

10:49:30
We definitely know grandpa's wishes, which is why we haven't left his side.

What a total HOOT. Tiffany and Neila wouldn't understand/respect Dad's wishes if they bit 'em square on their massive, corn-spewing asses. It's just that simple. Let us examine:

1. The day he was hurt, Neila and Reagan left Dad's side to go a-lawyerin' to...get this...wait for it...wait for it...actively shit on his wishes!!!

2. Tiffany waged a hatchet job campaign on me - Dad's only child - without bothering to discuss anything with the STAR WITNESS - Dad - regarding our conflict. It's hard to disregard a man more handily than that.

3. Dad was adamant that Lisa and I take the lead on Tasha in all circumstances. We were CLOSEST to Tasha (after Dad) and took very devoted care of her after Duh Flozzies let her rot while being paid over $6600 a month, part of their long history of canine calamities.

4. Hey, thanks for being there, but Dad's wishes had NOTHING to do with whether Flozberks, or anyone, stayed at his side while he was essentially an eggplant with a faint pulse. Nothing. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Period. That message was simply tangy grandstanding wrapped in a cheese-infused bad faith attempt to degrade me atop a crispy bed of trying to bait me into being incivil drenched in rich, sleazy idiocy sauce. A Flozberk Special.

5. Dad 100% would have wanted, on the day he died, for his son (and Lisa) to stay in his childhood home with the ragged Tasha that they took care of VERSUS Aydin's daugher in a home never hers with the ragged Tasha she badly neglected as she soaked 'em for over $1600 a week. Anyone who even flirts with disputing that is a lying piece of shit and/or a total fucking lunatic.

6. Dad didn't trust The Flozberks with caring for Tasha's special needs to the point where he asked us to stop by late on Flozberk days to spray her medicine and look for spat Benadryl.

7. I remind us that hours before he suffered the blow to the head, he categorically and officially rejected The Flozberks and affirmed me (and Lisa). Period. 'Nuff said.

Uh, so, fuck you and then some, Princess Corn Log.

But hey, no way was I gonna get in a tug of war on Dad's birthdeathday with that snide, delusional, toxified moron. Hell, I wasn't even gonna match up her snideness. High road, no escalation.

Even if I wanted trouble, I was too exhausted and ill for such things, and, seriously, it mattered to me that such an important day for Tiffany not be degraded. High road, man. Later, perhaps, a different road.

11:27:31
Thank you for that. You have all done a fabulous job, especially you.

We pondered what The Princess's reply to that would be. Gracious, or...

11:30:08
My pleasure. We wouldn't have it any other way.

Self-serving and snotty, it is. Whoda thunkit? Hell, at least someone was getting some pleasure out of this nightmare.

As for that "...any other way" shit, I'd imagine that can be taken two ways. Was she trumpeting that, with Neila and Reagan living 2500' away and relatively unencumbered by the rigors of making a living, they would not leave Dad alone to die? If so, how very gallant of them.

If it was in regards to doing a fabulous job overall, like with Dad, or, say, life as a whole, then all I can do is facepalm. "Fabulous job" just ain't their thing.

Gather, Disengage 
We arrived soon after and contrary to her message, Tiffany was not there. Splendid! Neila, Reagan, Marilyn, and her husband were there. We hung out, stayed pretty quiet, and watched football. Tasha was sad, looking for Dad. As I told Marylin a story, Neila made a four-syllable Tuscan-style ass of herself, adding one of many $500 shots to the PRS kitty the Flozberks would trigger during this matter.

Once the conversation turned to wishes that California, the agricultural and tech heart of the USA, would be destroyed in a natural disaster, Lisa and I started getting a bit dizzy and we wondered how much more we could take, but things mercifully wound down and people started heading home.

Again, we intended to spend the evening and night with Tasha, who was closer to us than anyone other than Dad, in my childhood home precisely according to Dad's explicit wishes. However, the malignant Flozberk lust to control the moment is a powerful force, and when Neila and Reagan left after the Pats game, Neila tersely announced she would return "in a little while" to spend the night with Tasha.

It was dictated, not discussed. Had it been discussed, we would have prevailed. Every relevant, rational aspect favored us. Every last one. And, her arrogantly-vague "in a little while" shit was not very informative. Even with the little things, Neila fell short. Her lack of grace when it was most called for was remarkable.

As Neila waddled to the door, I weighed my dilemma. I wanted this badly. I should have gotten canine power of attorney, too, I guess. But, I didn't want to fight with her. She was in pain and seemed hurt by losing Dad. Her stark deficiencies in regarding others doesn't mean she doesn't love them.

What to do? The last few days and 2018 swirled in my mind. Woeful lack of cooperation, communication, and regard. Ignoring my 50th birthday. Total absence of any thanks or acknowledgment for our many efforts in the last few days, including 24 hour care of Tasha and Lisa's cleanup of both Dad's blood from his bathroom and Tasha's urinary tragedy from The Piss Parlor.

Overt hostility from Langdon on the final night Dad's heart was beating. Incredible campaign of defamation Neila and Tiffany had wreaked on us. Repeated and ongoing disregard of Dad's wishes. No inquires about how we were doing or how my purple, busted foot was. No condolences on the loss of my father. That's just some of it.

The rank cretins at best didn't care about us and at worst downright hated us. We tried to be gracious to them and they were far too often ugly, nasty pigs.

Enough is enough. We were 100% Flozberked out.

The Heiress
Lisa and I looked at each other and after a couple of seconds I shook my head, smirked, and raised my hands in a gesture of disengagement. Lisa nodded in agreement. I quipped “It looks like a cow just inherited a dog.” Lisa replied, “Yep. She's an heiress now.”

Indeed. Splitting Tasha in half would have been cruel and gruesome and I was not about to fight with that damn fool woman over that dog. No way.

We spent the Saints game on the floor with old, ill, heartbroken Tasha, comforting her, scratching her in her favorite places, and giving her peanuts. At game's end, Neila had mercifully not fulfilled her pledge to return “in a little while,” so we huddled with Tasha, told her we loved her, took her collar for our Wall of Honor, got our stuff together, and saddled up for the last time we would leave that house together.

Go. Far. Long.
My friend Joe in Colorado floated a strange idea - head that way and join him at his back country cabin for a week or more. He'd just suffered some rough times, too, and we could help one another get better.

4x4 towing a snowmobile to get there. Axe and wood stove. Bedrolls. Outhouse. Canned food. Solar and wind power. No phone. No internet. A hard drive full of great music and movies, portable speaker, and a mini-projector.

And, after almost a year free of vices right down to caffeine and sugar, a half case of single malt Scotch and an ozer of some of the best smoke on Earth.

Lisa had a friend ready to spend some time with her and reconnect, too. Hell yeah, let's do this. She had my phone and was on call to help The Flozzies with Tasha, but we would not contact them for a while. Again, enough is enough and we were way past that.

I had trouble sleeping, haunted by the image of Dad in an icebox somewhere, but I got a few hours and woke up ready for a snowy, rustic, demanding mourning break, far from any Flozberks. But first, we had to observe a tradition: When someone croaks, we go to Tony's Pizza and Pasta, so we hit that on the way to the airport.

Please Don't Be Alarmed
I'm interested in neither pizza nor pasta there, but rather their strangely cheap veal dishes. Veal rossini is topped with ham, tomato slices, and cheese in a white wine sauce with a splash of marinara, a nice dish I'd not seen anywhere else.

Awaiting our cruelest and loneliest of meats, I mentioned how Dad tripped out upon hearing Tony's had budget veal plates - he'd no idea. After their meal there years earlier following Mom's memorial service (I stayed behind with Tasha), I asked Dad what he ate. "Spaghetti," was the glum reply.

I already knew the answer, but still asked if he enjoyed it. "Not really." Of course he didn't - he wasn't big on pasta or red sauce and spaghetti tends to be physically and texturally unkind to blind people with Big Pharma-ruined taste buds.

What a shame. That was the man's widower dinner! I wondered aloud why it was not decisively ensured he had the best experience possible. What went wrong? 

Yep, I smelled an intellectually lazy, half-assed clod in the woodpile.

So did Lisa, and she was on it BIG TIME:

“DADDYYYYYYY, DO YOU WANT SPAGHETTI OR LASAGNA?!?!?”

The unexpected screech was so shrill that it made me jump.

I stared at her, mouth agape. She let rip the new and improved bigger, louder version:

"DADDYYYYYYYYYYYY, DO YOUUU WANT SPAGHETTIIIIII OR LASAGNAAAAA?!?!?!?!?!?!?”

The Neila imitation was Rich Little spot-on and the choice of words flawless.

Laughter hit in diaphragm-heaving waves. I'd not laughed so hard since Dad and I about died laughing at Princess Corn Log months before. Yeah, The Flozberks SUCK, but they're often funny as bloody hell.

We'd commandeered the attention of the entire eatery, so I had to say something. Looking around I loudly announced:

Please don't be alarmed - it's only my life partner mocking my idiot half-sister.

Chuckles trickled from the surrounding booths.

She wasn't done. Shifting into Neila's Silly Ass mode, she mimicked the heaping of affection on an invisible someone next to her while shooting a glare of contempt across the table and screeching, "I LOVE YOU, ANGEL!!!"

And just when I was sure I couldn't laugh any harder, she heaved a shit-ton of icing on the proverbial cake with a thoughtful:

Ya know, I think that's gonna be my best memory of Neila.

Two very serviceable veal dishes and a 25% tip for $32, some side-splitting, deathly topical laughter, and a plane ride to the high country.

Hell, my first full day with no parents coulda gone worse.

Continued in Tasha 10/24/2005 - 01/29/2019

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