Spent the better part of this week throwing up.
No, not because of that. God.
Just plain old sick. And watching the orange baboon speak for however long today only made it worse.
But the whole cleaning up after myself reminded me of mom’s final months, days, minutes, seconds.
I mean, it was no fun barfing into my garbage can and having to clean the bathroom when I missed.
I did that without a complaint for momma. Didn’t mind it at all. Didn’t even think to mind it.
I had issues with dressing her wounds. Oh man if I didn’t get it exactly right, that ended in two people crying.
That said, she was always so grateful to me and I whatever’d it.
Like, you’re my mom. You didn’t choose this. You’re still a source of joy to me. Let’s not dwell on this horror that you can’t control.
At least when it was her, I had no problem running trash out to the chute multiple times a day. Or scrubbing a floor or washing clothes or sheets or pillows or or or, etc.
I finally got around to washing my rugs and clothes today. Wednesday. After a very long Monday night/Tuesday morning.
She deserved better. She received better. I mean, I would rather she had a caring doctor who didn’t let things go the way they did.
But man, would it have been nice to have someone who knew I was sick. Even better if they gave a shit if I recovered.
We were always so thrilled she didn’t have to die in a hospital or a nursing home.
This all kind of jerked me back to those discussions. Like, welp, better make sure that isn’t my fate either.
Anyway now I get to stay up all night doing projects I didn’t expect to do on a timeline I thought would work before I felt like hot buttered death.
At least I’m not my friend who works in foreign trade policy for the federal government. I’ll take my life/job any damn day over that, thanks. Any damn ay.