It’s late, I’m tired, somewhere in the gray area between loopy and crunchy, and though the guards are still up, those metaphorical things that protect us from people, they seem a bit drunk and the brass buttons leave one shirt tail longer than the other.
My little sisters clumberland was put to sleep today, Waylon Jennings, he was a good dog, sheepish, hair wise, the kind of sheepish where the stumpy tail needs to wag to know which end of the dog is giving you love. They are hospice dogs, ancient, came with problems, though, to be fair, they worked at the hospice under the theory that critters make people happy. I’ve had the fear of outliving my children, I don’t know that I could cope, but losing a dog is pretty dang close.
Several years ago a partner of mine had made a successful transfer to return a kid home, almost unheard of in our unit, a miracle of sorts. Three days later the five year old find mommy dead. She had tied a rope to her neck and attached it to the gears of her treadmill. It was hard to give empathic condolences. I asked her what I could do for her, she said ‘go home and hug your children and tell them that you love them’. Sound advice. I suggest you do the same with your dogs.
The home health care nurse is considering my father at serious risk for hospitalization. Some of her concerns are valid; he’s all fucked up and beyond my ability to do much for it. Beyond hers too. Old dogs in pain are mercifully put to sleep. Old humans are suffered much more gratuitous indignity. I expect to outlive my father, it is a kindness, how do you outlive your children and do something as simple as eat a bowl of oatmeal, watch a news program, breathe properly? I mean I came out for this; I’m not doing well at it. I have a valid excuse; I don’t know how, I have another valid excuse; I’m sort of fucked up myself, also the sun is my eyes and someone yelled jinx as I was teeing off.
I spent the evening grandwhelping, the personal stuff came by phone and text. I had brought my own pillows, narcotics and topical NSAID and still back and shoulder muscles tensed with stress. I used to be better for such things. Age has a way of pointing out your flaws with extreme prejudice. I have no idea what to do next. Sleep, that’s a good plan, not bloody likely, but a good plan. Everything looks better in the morning when you are cranky, foggy and roused from the temporary death of handing over your rational mind to dreams.
Zagnut bars probably don’t help, but they do distract.
I wrote a flash earlier. It was too easy and not very good, but if my brain farts tomorrow I can add to the heap, how are you going to find gems in the shit if there isn’t any shit? Tomorrow I go racing around; a follow up for my mom’s cataract, my own prescriptions and a way to keep my dads sock rotated and dry. Honestly, I think he’s peeing on them. I don’t know how to change that behavior. On a lucid day he’ll make a joke or sing a song rhyming pissing and missing, meat and feet, and probably ‘get out of the ‘ll street your feet get sore-a’ On a less lucid day it’ll be ‘Ok, all right, yes’ which sounds like he co-operate but mean something else entirely.
It’s a little early for my birthday curse to be causing trouble, but it is in the right zodiac sign.
I’ll try, in-between rushing and cussing, to fuck with another flash, or maybe you’ll get the shitty one.
And I’m spent.
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