I just got off the phone with brother concerning our expectations for the next two (cash paid) weeks of Mama's care and we have two goals which are the ability to get from chair to potty or bed with minimal assistance. That's about all Daddy can offer. If that doesn't happen we move to plan B. The emotional roller coaster is quite tiring for everybody concerned. Daddy and I ate at eggs'n'doughnuts silently savoring the loaded hashbrowns and Skinny. The TV overhead was announcing the story of the latest ISIS beheading of an aid worker and I lost my appetite for all of it. Should've just gotten a caramel long john instead. After that,of course, we had to stop by the DQ for dilly bars before we checked in at the home. I felt the tears welling up in my eyes as I watched them coyly try to catch up with me standing in the door like the invisible kid. They do so love each other in spite of all the bickering. I talked with their HH social worker the other day and she has discharged him from their care because he finally got the message that she'd keep coming around bugging him unless he played nice. Cindy will be retiring soon and head up north to spend time with her family.
I go back on Thursday. To say I don't want it is an understatement because I feel like this entire 7 weeks has been a clusterfuck. Maybe doing lab tests will give me enough structure to get out of my own head and back in the game of life. I feel like a spectator and have tne entire time. This old gal don't take well to infirmity which is something I reckon I took after both parents. My dear friend Cathy B was so afraid before I got cut that I'd be out doing something stupid like clearing a fence row or some such. I'm doing good at this point to get my hair and the dishes washed. It was quite cool this morning but warmed up quickly so that by the time I picked Daddy up at church he shed the jacket. I even saw a cute pair of leggings on a way too big butt up at the chicken and gas store. It's almost hoodie time in Tennessee!
UT got a whipping on the road yesterday so there's that to ponder if you care...I certainly don't. Somewhere in some psych textbook there is an obscure name for the condition of being the only girl of a football fanatic father. Let's call it the Poopie syndrome, shall we? Mostly it consists of a strong dislike of any type of sport whether it's golf or football or tennis. I do love roundball but only at the high school and college levels. After that they start beating their wives and shit.
I just tore a gash in my knee on a plastic tub full of winter clothes so I suppose it's a sign to get offa' my ass and do something besides taptaptap. I did go out yesterday and get some beautiful shots of the farm to add to our collection of Pecan Lane. Hopefully the corn shelling will be quick and painless and once again I can see the chicken cross the road.