They save his life once an hour, she says. Jacking him w adrenalin and a breathing machine until the blood pressure hits the point at which it’s safe to give him more morphine. Repeat. He’s 89. I remember him solid like a little wall of a person, with hands like old growth root tangles. (Stop.)
I tell her I’ll send a box full of the jams he likes, and I do send it. Why not?
My sister says, Ma you should tell him everything is okay, that We Will All Be Okay. My mom hangs up on her.
And you feel like such a traitor, every time, bc he does come back and then you take the baby for a visit and he pets her fat arm and he knows enough to know he likes that a lot. And if they had stopped dragging him back, then he’d not have seen the baby. So you’re an asshole.
Still (I'll prolly eat my words but) it seems having oxygen blown down your throat and 20 drugs (AT LEAST omg) running through your system forcing your heart to beat with your children by your bedside sobbing DON’T GO!!!! is not a pleasant way to go. Absolutely nothing is more unnerving than your child in tears and in pain. That puts me in the highest state of distress that I ever get in. To die in that state seems like the exact opposite of what I’d hope for, i.e. I’d prefer not ever to be in a state of annoyed terror but especially not if I’m trying to concentrate on something as big as dying. (FYI, when I get ready to die, do not tell me THEN that you love me so much your eyeballs are gonna melt outa your head – speak now.)
My sister says hell maybe they’ll figure out how to taxidermy him with a heartbeat and we’ll see him at Christmas. (We laugh like assholes.)
Otherwise it was a really nice day. It was warm and rainy and I canceled class in the afternoon and did some xmas shopping online and felt good to be alive. I miss my grandparents. I wish they were still alive and not nothingbutsuffering, and that I could visit them and sew with my grandma while Doug fried eggs over hard. He was always laughing.
I tell her I’ll send a box full of the jams he likes, and I do send it. Why not?
My sister says, Ma you should tell him everything is okay, that We Will All Be Okay. My mom hangs up on her.
And you feel like such a traitor, every time, bc he does come back and then you take the baby for a visit and he pets her fat arm and he knows enough to know he likes that a lot. And if they had stopped dragging him back, then he’d not have seen the baby. So you’re an asshole.
Still (I'll prolly eat my words but) it seems having oxygen blown down your throat and 20 drugs (AT LEAST omg) running through your system forcing your heart to beat with your children by your bedside sobbing DON’T GO!!!! is not a pleasant way to go. Absolutely nothing is more unnerving than your child in tears and in pain. That puts me in the highest state of distress that I ever get in. To die in that state seems like the exact opposite of what I’d hope for, i.e. I’d prefer not ever to be in a state of annoyed terror but especially not if I’m trying to concentrate on something as big as dying. (FYI, when I get ready to die, do not tell me THEN that you love me so much your eyeballs are gonna melt outa your head – speak now.)
My sister says hell maybe they’ll figure out how to taxidermy him with a heartbeat and we’ll see him at Christmas. (We laugh like assholes.)
Otherwise it was a really nice day. It was warm and rainy and I canceled class in the afternoon and did some xmas shopping online and felt good to be alive. I miss my grandparents. I wish they were still alive and not nothingbutsuffering, and that I could visit them and sew with my grandma while Doug fried eggs over hard. He was always laughing.
"The Way I Am," Ingrid Michaelson
