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muckefuckYesterday was another messily emotional day brought on by post-operative exhaustion, bad family news, and Death Week. (Sunday was Monshu's yortsayt; tomorrow is Lee's. Today is a friend's spouse's and yesterday was another's.) And I have a hangover.
I was actually doing well yesterday afternoon. After finding out that I wasn't going to have to rush to the ER and finding a way to mitigate 90% of my ass pain, I ended up in something of a good mood. My student had his last shift and I gave him a friendly send-off. I bantered a bit with Postillero (who I might not see again for two weeks because holidays) and ran to the store for some snowflake-shaped Ritz crackers and cheap "cheddar" to broil on them to eat with my chowder and that left me feeling good enough to do a big load of laundry.
But of course it couldn't last. I'd called Mom earlier to let he know the procedure had gone well and found that she was just then on the phone with Crazy Brother. When we finally had a chance to catch up, she said that trying to work a holiday job with punishing 9-hr shifts had destabilised him so much that his doctor was considering electroshock to get him back on track. The plan is for him to commit himself Friday--to someplace less prison-like than the last facility if we can find a bed--and hopefully be out by Christmas.
Between dryer checks, I fired up the bath (part of my therapy is two Sitzbäder per day) and turned to the next selection in my big book of contemporary American short stories. From the the first page, it looked to be a comedy of manners about a successful middle-class woman and her fuckup starving writer sister but it became steadily more heartrending until I found my cheeks damp. No sooner had I finished it than I had an e-mail from my sister about both Crazy Brother and our father, who's being sent for psychological testing again and doped up on Tramadol so Stepmom can more easily deal with him.
I set aside the phone and wept.
Christmas is just going to suck this year and I can't wait to have it over. I'm gladbunj will be there but he'll have E. along, who's bound to be anxious about everything that needs to be done for their move, which starts Boxing Day. (They have to haul ass back to Chicago at the buttcrack of dawn in order to be there for the packers.) Mom has fantasies about my staying with her and I'm already considering staying one night just to satisfy them because who knows how much conflict there'll be at Dad's.
I told Sis about that and she offered her couch again. I didn't have the heart to tell her before I did that I'd much rather take a room at the hotel where B&E are staying. I told him that the only way I can see getting through that week is by promising myself I can take the next year off.
I was actually doing well yesterday afternoon. After finding out that I wasn't going to have to rush to the ER and finding a way to mitigate 90% of my ass pain, I ended up in something of a good mood. My student had his last shift and I gave him a friendly send-off. I bantered a bit with Postillero (who I might not see again for two weeks because holidays) and ran to the store for some snowflake-shaped Ritz crackers and cheap "cheddar" to broil on them to eat with my chowder and that left me feeling good enough to do a big load of laundry.
But of course it couldn't last. I'd called Mom earlier to let he know the procedure had gone well and found that she was just then on the phone with Crazy Brother. When we finally had a chance to catch up, she said that trying to work a holiday job with punishing 9-hr shifts had destabilised him so much that his doctor was considering electroshock to get him back on track. The plan is for him to commit himself Friday--to someplace less prison-like than the last facility if we can find a bed--and hopefully be out by Christmas.
Between dryer checks, I fired up the bath (part of my therapy is two Sitzbäder per day) and turned to the next selection in my big book of contemporary American short stories. From the the first page, it looked to be a comedy of manners about a successful middle-class woman and her fuckup starving writer sister but it became steadily more heartrending until I found my cheeks damp. No sooner had I finished it than I had an e-mail from my sister about both Crazy Brother and our father, who's being sent for psychological testing again and doped up on Tramadol so Stepmom can more easily deal with him.
I set aside the phone and wept.
Christmas is just going to suck this year and I can't wait to have it over. I'm glad
bunj will be there but he'll have E. along, who's bound to be anxious about everything that needs to be done for their move, which starts Boxing Day. (They have to haul ass back to Chicago at the buttcrack of dawn in order to be there for the packers.) Mom has fantasies about my staying with her and I'm already considering staying one night just to satisfy them because who knows how much conflict there'll be at Dad's.I told Sis about that and she offered her couch again. I didn't have the heart to tell her before I did that I'd much rather take a room at the hotel where B&E are staying. I told him that the only way I can see getting through that week is by promising myself I can take the next year off.