Been awake since about three-something. Checked Mom, wandered around, went back to bed, checked Mom again, coughed some, checked Mom again because she was moaning slightly; at this point it was four hours since the last morphine and I gave her another dose in case. I don't think she has to worry about becoming a drug addict at this late date and the nurse has said repeatedly it will ease her breathing. Then I went back to bed, hoping James would wake up. No chance. Probably for the best; he's going to have to be there to hold me up when I fall down.

So now I'm down here doing what I do when I'm troubled; I write. I'm trying not to disturb Pidgie too much, but he gave a faint, questioning "Cheep?" when I turned the computer on.

It's not just Mom, it's thinking about the whole "dog and pony show" that has to follow. I want a nice service for her, but from this vantage it looks like a nightmare, with the added ordeal of having to do it in midsummer. Death plus slow roasting on a spit of Mother Nature's making. What a daunting prospect.

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. . . . . noted and logged by Linda at 4:33:00 AM

Comments:

Writing is good therapy. A nice Scott/Betty story maybe?

# posted by  Anonymous : 11:43:00 AM

 

You're bearing up wonderfully, Linda. If there's anything we can do to help, let me know.

JErry

# posted by  Jerry : 2:56:00 PM

 

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