Huckleberry of Trill
Apr. 22nd, 2026 07:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ismoYesterday, we had a Zoom with Deb and the Prussian in which it was revealed that they would not be coming to visit this weekend, after all. We were kind of expecting that. We are sad not to see them, but unfortunately, we understand the problem better every day. Sometimes the event tax on an activity is just too onerous, in terms of the recovery time that will be needed afterwards. The Sparrowhawk and I went for a walk, if you can call it that. It's a slow process. But on the bright side, he never actually sat down! I made some ham fried rice for dinner. I attended a birthday celebration for La Pucelle in the evening. I felt out of juice by that time, and was worried that I wouldn't behave in an appropriately festive manner, but I think we managed to make her feel celebrated. I got leftover ice cream to take home, so that will be nice for later.
Today I was determined to visit Madame. I tried to get there early, hoping I would also get home early. I brought coffee. She was happy to have company, and we chatted cheerfully for awhile. Then a music therapist I hadn't met before showed up. She was young and pretty, dressed in a long black silk dress with black lace inserts, black boots, a crow skull necklace, and big silver death's head moth earrings. It was a striking outfit, but not perhaps designed to appeal to the elderly? I think there are not many witches living in Madame's facility, but who knows! Anyway, it didn't seem to bother Madame, and the therapist very sweetly and kindly sang a bunch of old songs for us. I joined in, and Madame did too, on a few verses that she remembered. She fell asleep briefly during "Home On the Range." The therapist complimented me on my singing, which was kind of her, so I asked if she'd like to hear one of my songs. I sang her "Inversnaid," lyrics by Gerard Manley Hopkins, in honor of Earth Day. She claimed to like it, though again, who knows! After I sang it, I felt silly, because one doesn't generally sing in public, unless officially authorized and possessed of a guitar.
After this excitement, I'm afraid the visit took a turn for the worse. They brought in Madame's lunch. It seems they always have meatballs on Wednesdays. I've never seen them offer anything else. She didn't want it, and ate only a couple of bites before rejecting the whole idea. She started to get agitated about wanting to get out of there, wanting to go stay with her mom and dad, and other familiar topics that alas, are above my pay grade to solve. I did my best to reassure her and change the subject, but then we had to make a bathroom trip, which always tires her. I let her walk me as far as the dining area, and then waved goodbye and left, because I could see that she was very tired. I hope she took a nap once I was gone.
It was a really beautiful day out here in the world of the living. I should have taken advantage of it to raise my drooping spirits, but I confess that I did not. I don't think I'm coping super-well with the recent downturn, unless you count extended moping as coping. I think of a thing I should do that would normally cheer me up, and instead of going forth and doing it, I pull the metaphorical blankie over my head and mutter "pfui" like a depressed Nero Wolfe. If I were that rotund detective genius, I don't think even the orchid rooms would cheer me right now, and I have to be my own Fritz the cook, so I can't order any menu that I'm not prepared to fix myself. To continue the melancholy metaphor, my own Archie Goodwin, the Sparrowhawk, can't be sent forth on errantry on my behalf, either. If I were the redoubtable Montenegrin, I'd probably be drinking beer and saving the bottle caps to document my debauchery. But I can't, because beer upsets my stomach. SIGH.
Today I was determined to visit Madame. I tried to get there early, hoping I would also get home early. I brought coffee. She was happy to have company, and we chatted cheerfully for awhile. Then a music therapist I hadn't met before showed up. She was young and pretty, dressed in a long black silk dress with black lace inserts, black boots, a crow skull necklace, and big silver death's head moth earrings. It was a striking outfit, but not perhaps designed to appeal to the elderly? I think there are not many witches living in Madame's facility, but who knows! Anyway, it didn't seem to bother Madame, and the therapist very sweetly and kindly sang a bunch of old songs for us. I joined in, and Madame did too, on a few verses that she remembered. She fell asleep briefly during "Home On the Range." The therapist complimented me on my singing, which was kind of her, so I asked if she'd like to hear one of my songs. I sang her "Inversnaid," lyrics by Gerard Manley Hopkins, in honor of Earth Day. She claimed to like it, though again, who knows! After I sang it, I felt silly, because one doesn't generally sing in public, unless officially authorized and possessed of a guitar.
After this excitement, I'm afraid the visit took a turn for the worse. They brought in Madame's lunch. It seems they always have meatballs on Wednesdays. I've never seen them offer anything else. She didn't want it, and ate only a couple of bites before rejecting the whole idea. She started to get agitated about wanting to get out of there, wanting to go stay with her mom and dad, and other familiar topics that alas, are above my pay grade to solve. I did my best to reassure her and change the subject, but then we had to make a bathroom trip, which always tires her. I let her walk me as far as the dining area, and then waved goodbye and left, because I could see that she was very tired. I hope she took a nap once I was gone.
It was a really beautiful day out here in the world of the living. I should have taken advantage of it to raise my drooping spirits, but I confess that I did not. I don't think I'm coping super-well with the recent downturn, unless you count extended moping as coping. I think of a thing I should do that would normally cheer me up, and instead of going forth and doing it, I pull the metaphorical blankie over my head and mutter "pfui" like a depressed Nero Wolfe. If I were that rotund detective genius, I don't think even the orchid rooms would cheer me right now, and I have to be my own Fritz the cook, so I can't order any menu that I'm not prepared to fix myself. To continue the melancholy metaphor, my own Archie Goodwin, the Sparrowhawk, can't be sent forth on errantry on my behalf, either. If I were the redoubtable Montenegrin, I'd probably be drinking beer and saving the bottle caps to document my debauchery. But I can't, because beer upsets my stomach. SIGH.
