I’m going to start
with the admission that I’ve had more than my daily allowance of red wine. No,
I am not pleased by this, but then again, I can imagine behavior more egregious.
And that’s a word in itself, egregious,
no? We should all strive to use it more often.
A plumber, a nice,
chatty, articulate, honest plumber, came to give ma maman an estimate today. I
used the word cistern on him. He was
a bit taken aback, but soldiered on. And he left with a $2000 work estimate. Oh
man. Given that Mom is 88 is it worth putting $1600 into house we don’t own
(reverse mortage)? Maybe this is more information than you want.
I mention it because
this is what my current life is about: infrastructure and clean-up. Perhaps
that adds to the red wine incentive.
Max is not appreciably better today, so we are prepare ourselves to put Max down. Now, this is a sadness for the entire family as he has/had more personality than the rest of us combined. And ma maman has him since before my father died. Max moved here from next-door as he realized a cat-loving home.
Sunday now.
I just wish I could really sleep. Still waking up on east coast-isn time. I took a light nap with a cuddly Cooder, but I still don't feel rested. I dislike this in-between, not-really rested state as it feeds into my couch potato mode and I could just sit and watch hours more of television.
Max is my room on the floor here. We just force fed him some baby food and water. He isn't much better, so I don't know how much longer we will keep this regime up. After losing Tupelo and Albert, not to mention all the other losses in my life of late (perhaps most notably me), I feel nauseated at the thought of putting down Max. Life has been so relentlessly shitty for so long. I could really use a break.
Meanwhile, Cooder has come back for perhaps another nap?
Tuesday morning.
Max died last night. He died convulsing, spewing green stomach bile on the bathroom floor. Yes, it was terrible. More than once yesterday, I found him crouched or sprawled by a water bowl, his head in it, unable to drink. When I used a mouth syringe of water, he didn't seem to be able to swallow.
Sunday now.
I just wish I could really sleep. Still waking up on east coast-isn time. I took a light nap with a cuddly Cooder, but I still don't feel rested. I dislike this in-between, not-really rested state as it feeds into my couch potato mode and I could just sit and watch hours more of television.
Max is my room on the floor here. We just force fed him some baby food and water. He isn't much better, so I don't know how much longer we will keep this regime up. After losing Tupelo and Albert, not to mention all the other losses in my life of late (perhaps most notably me), I feel nauseated at the thought of putting down Max. Life has been so relentlessly shitty for so long. I could really use a break.
Meanwhile, Cooder has come back for perhaps another nap?
Tuesday morning.
Max died last night. He died convulsing, spewing green stomach bile on the bathroom floor. Yes, it was terrible. More than once yesterday, I found him crouched or sprawled by a water bowl, his head in it, unable to drink. When I used a mouth syringe of water, he didn't seem to be able to swallow.
Sigh. Wednesday night now.
Today I began working on the gardening issues (I know, so not what is happening in New York!), with quite a bit of replanting. There's much more to do.
Mom and I are still absorbing Max's quick decline and the hole that is here without him.
I am keeping busy with my curation gig and working on the house, but I take time each day to watch some TV (currently sucking up Season 4 of Homeland) and to read. I am almost halfway through the first volume of Caro! And I got Station Eleven and Brian Jones: The Making of the Rolling Stones from the library (not to mention the books I had left here and the ones I sent ahead).
And, just as in my childhood, I can hear the whizzwhirr of the 605 freeway close by.
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