It’s all love and guilt
Last night, we went to the new bar on the Embarcadero, the Waterbar, to drink a toast to T’s birthday and then we walked over to the Slanted Door. We were with a friend who was in the country coincidentally at the same time we were in San Francisco, so it was a nice treat for T’s birthday.
He made the comment at one point in describing himself as saying “it’s all love and guilt” with me. And I concurred.
This morning, I got up again at the buttcrack of dawn and flew to Los Angeles for a day of meetings, but on arrival got a call that mom had gone code blue and that I should come home now. The ensuing eight hours were filled with T’s trying to find me a flight home, my putting my grief in my back pocket, and waiting for the next call from New Orleans.
The next call came several hours later and it was that mom had stabilized – again the electrical currents used to revive her also corrected the arrhythmia that escalated when her lungs failed her. Another save? Perhaps not.
When I think about what medical care is at this point in life – I wonder what the hell the Republicans could possibly know about death panels. Most of our health care costs goes into keeping elderly people “alive” – and I want no part of it.
I vow to have a poison pill by my beside and if I can’t administer it, I know that T would if I asked her.
I think about the last time I have thought about my mother in a tender moment as the past four months and days have been one long heart dredging anxiety ridden path to nowhere.
And yet here another long day’s journey has ended where I begun – consumed by love and guilt.