Mirror, Mirror

The husband is moving us back to his small (2,400 pop.) hometown. His father has recently had a triple bypass and can no longer live on his own. He is 81. I just got off the phone with my husband with my insides all jiggly. 

Seems Dad is giving Son the OCPDer treatment. My husband is complaining of the Jekyll and Hyde treatment he is receiving. The dismissal of any and all advice. The ignoring of the doctor's treatment plan. The insistence that Dad says he is feeling 'just fine' while he weaves unsteadily and gasps for breath, denying the need for the oxygen that accompanied him home. The name calling and bursts of anger when Dad faces the limitations to his new life and shifts blame to my husband. 

Irony is one of my very favorite sources of humor. The pot calling the kettle black. It runs in families and soon I will have two of them to handle. A taste for irony has kept more hearts from breaking than a sense of humor, for it takes irony to appreciate the joke which is on oneself.