(no subject)
I went all the way to ?skip=820 to catch up on my flist.
Adam and Andrew rolled in on Thursday and are sleeping in my room. Adam keeps saying something not-mean about Peter and I really, really want to inform him that Peter has called our dad a handful of times since we found out Mom has cancer. And I can tell you exactly how many times he's called since Mom's gotten the more dramatic prognosis: none. I want him to stop talking about Peter, I want him to hate Peter as much as I do. I want to go up to New York state and I want to tear his self-absorbed, self-righteous, jackass little head off. But I won't, because I'm mostly a good person. And I always lose my words when I'm in a face-to-face confrontation.
The Crazy Baptist got here Friday and will thankfully only be staying here until early Tuesday morning. I pretty much want to shoot myself when she's around, but I guess she means well.
Mom has been sleeping the last two nights in her real bed, not the hospital bed. I think she's happier for it. I think she misses Dad. It used to be she'd come home from work and they'd take a nap, but I think they'd just cuddle and be together. This was the week we were supposed to be in New York, so Dad had off anyways. He goes back tomorrow. I don't know how that's going to work out. I think she misses him.
I have to remind her to take her pills tomorrow. There isn't really a clock near her so she always loses track of time, and I'm not even sure what all she's taking, so Dad usually reminds her. I don't really, either, but I know the color-coded system.
Everything feels sort of normal. Mom isn't an invalid--she can walk around the house slowly and she can walk up the stairs a couple times a day. It doesn't feel real.
Adam and Andrew rolled in on Thursday and are sleeping in my room. Adam keeps saying something not-mean about Peter and I really, really want to inform him that Peter has called our dad a handful of times since we found out Mom has cancer. And I can tell you exactly how many times he's called since Mom's gotten the more dramatic prognosis: none. I want him to stop talking about Peter, I want him to hate Peter as much as I do. I want to go up to New York state and I want to tear his self-absorbed, self-righteous, jackass little head off. But I won't, because I'm mostly a good person. And I always lose my words when I'm in a face-to-face confrontation.
The Crazy Baptist got here Friday and will thankfully only be staying here until early Tuesday morning. I pretty much want to shoot myself when she's around, but I guess she means well.
Mom has been sleeping the last two nights in her real bed, not the hospital bed. I think she's happier for it. I think she misses Dad. It used to be she'd come home from work and they'd take a nap, but I think they'd just cuddle and be together. This was the week we were supposed to be in New York, so Dad had off anyways. He goes back tomorrow. I don't know how that's going to work out. I think she misses him.
I have to remind her to take her pills tomorrow. There isn't really a clock near her so she always loses track of time, and I'm not even sure what all she's taking, so Dad usually reminds her. I don't really, either, but I know the color-coded system.
Everything feels sort of normal. Mom isn't an invalid--she can walk around the house slowly and she can walk up the stairs a couple times a day. It doesn't feel real.