Have a question for the cirky manifestation of my Wiser Self? I do all of the time! That’s why Dear Cocoa is here. Meet her in today’s first ever Dear Cocoa advice column. (originally published March 7, 1921)

Dear Cocoa is intended for entertainment purposes only. Don’t set your clocks to its numbers, because the numbers and time that are appropriate for some may not be in line for others. If it resonates, why not run with it (within relative reason)?; however, if the idea hits your ear all wrong, there’s no need to keep it hanging about. That said, all advice is given earnestly and with sincerity. I have encountered Cocoa throughout the years, more so now than when we were younger, and let me tell you: she is mighty, impressive, ferocious, and kind. Enjoy!
Dear Cocoa,
My Dad is dying of dementia. It took his mother and sister; understandably, my cousins, sisters and I age and live with the threat of this vanishing fog at the end of our roads. If my card is pulled, I will hatch plans early so as to check out before the gnarly part starts.

My father made no such plans and his care is almost entirely in my stepmom’s hands. I don’t know if she will surrender him to a home, but I can’t see it. She is not much older than I am and for the past 35 years my father, her work, and their dogs were the foundations of her world. She retired at 55 and their plan was to travel throughout the world before my dad got too decrepit (he was a healthy, fit, and active man). The dementia squatted all over that possibility. Then one of their two dogs died. Instead of foreign shores, she is cloistered away in their home as she cares for his ever increasing litany of needs. I have chosen to help her with his care and her own (the woman needs some escape, even if it is only to make an Amazon return, or buy fresh produce).

In order to spend time with my dad, I have cut back my hours at a job that I love. The benefit to this is that as I drive home silently scream-crying after a day with the ghost of my father, I know my Cup of Joy will be refilled at work the following day. In addition, I have a hobby I am fiercely passionate about – but because it requires time, I have recently all but neglected it; feeling guilty that there are so many more practical uses for my time. And then feeling guilty for not prioritizing some fun over the constant duty I seem to be on. I have three siblings who, for very valid reasons, are not helping.

Here is my dilemma:
My father was not a good father. I won’t go into specific detail because this is an “advice column”, not an “advice docu-series”; however, I experienced neglect and shaming from him up until the last moments of his prior identity. My mom permanently checked out when I was fifteen and that is how I came to live with my dad. As he was my only remaining parent, I hoped he would fill the vast chasm of emptiness my mom’s absence had created. He did not. Worse than that, he helped me fill it with self-loathing.
Sometimes when I am changing his diaper, a powerful voice straining to be heard shrieks, “WHATHTEFUCKAREWEDOINGHERE?!?!?!?!?!”. It’s a difficult voice to ignore, especially with the rash now. My turmoil over caring for a man who cared so little for me is manifesting in a rash, acne, chronic pain, and trigger finger (the inflammation of the joint is due to overuse as I clean and such when stressed). I dread going over there. But then when I see the frail, soft being he has become, I feel guilty. But then he does shit like pick up a limp, fishy napkin from lunch, look me dead in the eye, and say, “This is you.” And this dude can’t usually string two words together.

Get Out.
Cocoa, I feel crazy. I am by nature or nurture a caregiver… but I don’t know if I can continue to care for him. Just so you know, my parents have enough money for in-home care… it’s just that my stepmom doesn’t trust others with my dad or their home.
Yours,
Splotches

Dearest Splotches,
That voice you are hearing is your grown-ass self screaming to the child in you to RUN!!!!!! Your stepmom is close to your age? Your siblings aren’t helping? He was a “bad father” yet you feel obligated to care for him?

Girl…this man sounds complicated and controlling. He’s done a number on you and your siblings… and your stepmom. Encourage her to get in-home care and a very good, very patient therapist. I encourage you to do the same, my sweet, splotchy soul.
UPDATE
Dear Cocoa,
I know what you said was logically correct, but I have stayed. Shortly after I wrote, my Dad had a psychotic break and physically attacked my Stepmom. After a Fellini week of VA ERs, the frantic fear in my chest began to subside and we settled my Dad into a memory care facility three minutes from my Stepmom’s house. Forty-five from mine. I go every couple of days, if not every other day. Here’s what happened. The care my Dad received at the memory care facility has brought him back online. The man who was nearly catatonic three months prior is now discussing sociopolitical dynamics of the embattled middle class, and simulation theory. Unfortunately, this has made him poorly suited for the facility he is in; we joked about the irony.
His return and impending death has allowed us to discuss our relationship and the past in frank terms. He has apologized for so much. I love my time with him, but struggle to leave him in his the facility after our visits. He told me it was madness there in the evenings; he says “the ancients and the crazies” howl for home and it makes him feel like the woman in The Snakepit. Because of this, I have not visited much in the past two weeks (I burnt out, to be honest). Now, I have learned today from my stepmom (and true sister-in-arms) that he will be moved to a new facility that will be more suitable.
There is much I have experienced in the memory care center. This is a “good” place, pricier than the average American could afford. And still each time I am there all I think is, We must do better. I have sketches and notes in my journal for an experimental community that would enthusiastically embrace our most vulnerable and do its best to integrate and protect them. Maybe I should buy a lottery ticket.
My rash! It’s Polymorphic Light Eruption and it’s linked to my immune system. In short order: I am allergic to the sun. I learned the hard way that the splotches, with extended exposure to the sun, turn into painful blisters and lesions. The dermatologist asked me what I thought might be causing it. Stress? I answered. Could be, she said, but we’ll never know because 80% of the people who get it are women, and it isn’t fatal. It’s unlikely it’ll be researched . It may last for a few months or the rest of my life. My eating disorder has chosen to join the party as well. I also got a giant tattoo to commemorate my first family (it’s chock full of symbolism). It may be infected.
I agree I seem a bit messy currently, but I’ve reached out for help and have appointments in the near future. And it’s not just my Dad causing my madness; I have young adult children at home and they are struggling to find their ways (as is the custom), but they’re absolute lunatics at times; sometimes more adult than child, sometimes not. Sometimes it’s too much… I’m only a person. But thank you for your insight. I’m sure you were right, but I have to do this my own way, even if it isn’t the right way.
UPDATE
I have been seeing a good therapist and am in much better shape. Reading this hurts me… I was in the Monkey House too long and had grown senseless to the stench. I won’t bother you anymore with this… not for a while, at least. Thank you for getting me to get help, Cocoa; I love you so much.
Love,
Splotches

Dear Splotches,
Thank you for listening to me!!! It makes me want to burst with pride and love. You are evolving and it is a satisfying thing to witness. Continue to TAKE CARE of yourself: fix your tooth, your foot, and be gentle with your back. Remember how good meditation feels and try to do it DAILY; same with your yoga. And listen, I will always be here for you, and you are never a menace. Keep it coming, little sister.
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