Against all odds, Nana's still holding on. They have her in a regular room, sedated with morphine, and they've said that today they'll remove the feeding tube. It's only a matter of time now, I guess. At least she's not in pain. I didn't go see her. Maybe I should have, but we visited on Mother's Day, and that's how I want to remember her. I've seen the tubes and the drug-dulled eyes before - I don't want to see her that way now. Perhaps that's selfish of me, but death with dignity ought to be free of the parade of people who circle like so many vultures. Besides, Momma will need me more afterwards than she does right now. So instead of making the trip, I spent the weekend in mindless movie watching interrupted by the occasional chapter of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil to try to keep my mind off things. We watched everthing from Robin Hood Men in Tights to LA Confidential, with a side order of Tomb Raider and Kill Bill. So now it's Monday, my brain is numb, and my first cup of coffee never tasted so good. But the e-mails are stacking up, so I guess it's time to get to work.
I've never been good with expressing emotions. I always felt that emotions were a sign of weakness - part of being raised as my father's "son", I suppose. Lately I'm having a hard time bottling up those things that bubble up when people start flinging arrows and stones. Some I deserve. Others, less so. Innocent comments get taken out of context and used to further some cause. I make a genuine post about an overwhelming feeling I have, and someone turns it into an accusation, based on some sort of internet statistic that proves I've posted in response to something else. Frankly, I don't see the connection. I get angry more often than I used to, but I often feel like I've been kicked in the gut too. I'm not accustomed to that one. It usually brings tears. Intended kindnesses are perceived as attempts to control. And this post will be labeled as an attempt to send someone on a guilt trip - but hey - if the shoe fits, baby, wear it out.
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