It's an arithmetic kind of day.
-9. My grandmother is dying. I mean, OK, I'm 38 and she's my grandmother, which makes her 91. So obviously she's dying. But I mean been hospitalized 3 times in the last 2 months, most likely dying soon. She's my last living direct relative, other than my kids.
+9. I got to come back close to home, and I've been an active and present part of her life for the last 4 years.
-7. She's dying by inches, of the ravages of time, diabetes, and diabetes medication. Multiple organ failure. This is gonna suck.
+5. All my kids will remember her. Even the baby will remember her fairly clearly, and they're all good memories.
-2. I have to watch, and there ain't a damn thing I can do to make it better.
+6. As long as I don't screw up royally, her POA has known me since I was a toddler. She knows what I'm like and what I am and accepts me. So I probably won't get run off, and I will probably get to be there to help and comfort in whatever way I'm able.
So I think that's a +2. Which is pretty good, considering that I consider an unqualified 0 to be an OK day.
+2 more. Six days without any goddamn Klonopin and I feel like a human being again. I got up, did Grandma's laundry, made some phone calls, made about 60 pizelles, took them to the nursing staff, spent about an hour and a half with Grandma (with my preschooler no less, which tickled the old girl), drove 2 hours home in my van with the busted AC singing loudly, put laundry on, washed dishes, cleaned the kitchen, spent some time with my kids, greeted my hubby and spent some time with him, started dinner, put on a second load of laundry, talked to a friend, served dinner, spent some more time with Hubby, played a few games of cards with Middle Daughter, folded laundry, got online. This is more like one of MY slowish days. This is ME.
So that's a +4. Which is like a f*****g gift, considering. I think I like Zoloft.
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"Alas, our dried voices when we whisper together are quiet and meaningless, as wind in dry grass, or rats' feet over broken glass in our dry cellar." --TS Eliot, "The Hollow Men"