Bloodroot of Bliss

Recently, the Nipper performed a terrific cosplay karaoke as Drunken Thor, singing "Hurt." It was brilliant, and he won a prize for it. But unfortunately, the song got stuck in my head. Not the best thing for a time like this. "What have I become, my sweetest friend? Everyone I know goes away in the end . . . ."

My sibs and I were in the midst of yet another elaborate email discussion. My very next email was going to be a resignation--I was going to say that I would accept not having Mother in hospice, if that was what the Duchess wanted. She made it very clear that to her, morphine = death. She thinks if they give Mother morphine, she will die rapidly. I'm no morphine fan. I would try to put off its use as long as possible. But for the Duchess, it's equivalent to killing her mother at any time. So, how could I ask for a "compromise"? "We're only going to slightly kill your mother, I promise"? It just wouldn't work. I can't be the person who tells my sister it's okay to kill her mother. Our wishes were too far apart, so I was going to give in.

And a short time later, Mr. Science posted rather laconically to say that he had the paperwork straightened out and his next move would be to reinstate Mother in the hospice program she'd been in. End of story. No explanation. After hours of saying that we all had to act together and achieve consensus, he suddenly just acted unilaterally. The Duchess posted that "we just have to let go of Mother's care." WTF! I know that something happened behind the scenes. Yet, both of them were so adamant that nothing must happen behind the scenes! All must be done in the open, as a group! I'm happy with the outcome--as much as you can be when your mother has to be in hospice--but I am perplexed.

For the last two days, I've had the most horrible anxiety imaginable. The things that have been said to me hurt me so much. Last night I slept for a couple of hours, and had to get up. This morning I took another brief nap, for a grand total of four and a half hours. I'm sleep deprived and have had a killer headache most of the day. I'm so worried that my brother and sister hate me now. The Sparrowhawk was away all day, visiting his brothers. When he came back, I felt a lot better. I try to get over this, but I have a lot of trouble with it. I guess I should just focus on the outcome. The thing is, I'm already the one who killed my father. I was the one the doctor came to and said he should be in hospice now, and I made it happen. Every time the Duchess talks about it, she repeats her conviction that hospice killed my father. So I'm responsible for killing him, apparently. I was the one the doctor came to and said my mother should be in hospice and never never come back to the hospital, and I tried to make that happen. Now I may be the one who kills my mother as well--according to them. Shooting Old Yeller is no easy task.

I got out the Jack Daniels in a final attempt to ward off the dementors. What would JD do?? Drink up, that's what. With a side of Nutella toast. I'd be just swigging it from the bottle if I didn't have to get up tomorrow and drive down for Mother's Day. I love that the day stays light so long. I crave each drop of light, and dread the coming dark. When I was last with my mother, she was looking out the window, and suddenly smiled. "What are you thinking?" I asked. "Sistarula!" she said. Then explained, "It was just a word we made up." When she and her sister used to work the night shift in the Allis-Chalmers accounting department during the war, they'd pass notes to each other to try to keep awake. They were all nonsense. "Waresdiddle!" was one of them. And "That's calling the old shoe ducks!" I'm going to drink another toast to Sistarula. Some things still bring joy.