A 92 year old man with terminal leukemia isn't waging a battle; instead he's fading away and withdrawing into himself. Today Dad "slept" for my whole visit, although he did open his eyes sometimes and tried to mumble a few words. There wasn't much recognition, and I didn't see much of my father left in there. I'm still waging my own "battles" with the caregivers, albeit in a passive-aggressive way. When I overheard the woman caregiver complaining to Hospice about the nurse, I went home and made my own call during which I explained the situation and that my mother and I had been impressed with the openness and information the nurse gave us about the process the dying body goes through. Hospice is for end of life comfort care, culminating in death! The male caregiver made a reference to "that idiot nurse" who talked about my father's progression to death with him in the other room; I don't find that shocking or terrible. Dad confronted his death back in September when he started feeling awful, and understood his prognosis in December when they discussed the disease with the hematologist. Yet the caregivers (and my sister-in-law)are convinced that my nearly deaf father can suddenly hear well; nothing my mom and I can say will convince them otherwise. They are sure that he should eat, even when numerous nurses tell them that dying people don't want or need to. My sister-in-law was angry at me today because I matter-of-factly mentioned a meeting Mom and I have with a woman at Woodbine with her 9 and 14 year old children in the room. I didn't even say the words "death" or "cemetery!" The irony (hypocrisy?) of this is that the other day my niece was telling me all about how cool it was to play Fortnite because she had killed a whole bunch of people with a gun. "But don't worry, there isn't any blood." This was right after the Atlanta murders, so I felt compelled to let her know that in real life, getting shot hurts or kills people, and that there is lots of blood. I'm definitely not making points with my sister-in-law, am I? Oh, well. In the meantime, I'm also dealing with Poochie's stuff, managing her estate, organizing my dad's resting place, and trying not to lose my temper. It's exhausting...

In the small world category, the funeral home woman I talked to is not only the wife of someone I taught with for decades, but is also this Cle Elum jeweler's great-great granddaughter. I also spoke to Kathy at Woodbine Cemetery, who exclaimed, "I know you! We were both Fruitland Elementary room moms." Our daughters went to grade school, junior high and high school together. Then she proceeded to tell me that her younger daughter has been homeless for four years, is mentally ill and a drug user, and that her retired husband and she are rearing their 1st grade granddaughter. She claims that working at the cemetery has been a blessing; she doesn't feel so alone in her grief and has gotten perspective through others' tragedies. She's a much more philosophical person than I am because I think her situation sucks.

I'm still enjoying going through some of Poochie's cards, like this Christmas one with a plane that looked like their Beechcraft Bonanza split tail. I didn't get to fly very often with Grandpa since I am prone to airsickness. Enough said.

Although my dad isn't aware of his surroundings, his room is still decorated, like with this wedding photo. My younger daughter inherited his forehead! :)

John had an excellent Zoom conversation today with his Air Force buddies; doesn't he have the best background? My ex-boyfriend had no friends, just family members, while John has a bunch of guy friends and close relationships with his family. The pandemic has caused some of my friendships to suffer, which isn't unexpected, but still makes me sad. It's something to work on once I'm completely vaccinated.

Younger Daughter has a new aspect to her medical litigation job where she actually talks to claimants. It has the potential to be stressful because people can be nasty. However, it can also be heartrending, like the conversation with the widow of a claimant. Alison had to ask her some questions, to which she responded, " I don't know, he took care of him, he took care of me, he took care of everything." My late husband Mr. Capable, wouldn't allow that and expected me to be able to do things--or at least figure out ways to manage. Thus, when this panel of my fence started to separate (on the neighbor's side), I located a few bungee cords and lashed it together. He would have been proud.
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