Brain Dump 2008

Once again, I should be getting into bed and falling asleep, because I have work tomorrow morning at 9 AM. Once again, I'm sitting at my computer, writing.

Every year, I do a bit of reflection about New Year's in my journal, but this year, my hands are hurting too much to write it by hand, so I'm sharing it with the rest of you.

Have you ever thought about how arbitrary New Year's is? Or what it really means? Everyone talks about New Year's the same way they do about birthdays and anniversaries, only - there's less reason for it.

Birthdays and anniversaries mark events that are celebrated. We've lived/been together/done something for another entire arbitrary 12-month cycle. Still, considering it's human nature to impose artificial order on anything and everything, it makes sense. Though, why twelve months?

I know there's a historical reason for it. I might even have known it at one time. Still, here we are. One number up on the
millennia.

Maybe because my birthday and the New Year are so close together, I've never really seen the New Year as a big deal - or that I don't want to go out and get drunk in a huge crowd of people. Because me and crowds? Never a good idea.

Getting drunk in a small group of people? Probably also not the best idea, all things considered. Most of the folk I hang out with these days aren't too keen on getting quietly drunk, and those that are probably wouldn't like a melancholy drunk.

I'm just not much of a partier. No big revelation there.

Getting drunk on my own? That's just lame.

So, New Year's for me usually consists of writing in my journal, avoiding driving, hiding in my room with my pipe, and pondering why everyone else is making such a big fuss over something that's never made much sense to me.

Which is to say, it's much like any other day for me, except more people are drunk.

Somehow, though, I've found myself rather superstitious lately, seeing signs and omens, patterns and tides and tendencies.

I'm sure it says something I took my last dose of antibiotic, got my tax form, and had my mother visit the store for the first time all on the last day of the year.

But I suppose it does me no harm to sit down and reflect on the big picture a bit, no matter how depressed it gets me.

(Huh. Now I think I see why so many people get drunk on New Year's. Thinking too much does that to you.)

2008 was the first year since 2001 I haven't been in college in one form or another, and though I missed it, I think it was good for me to try to break away from academia, at least a little bit. Even though Austin Community College is no St. Edward's, it's not as bad as some folk make it out to be.

I've discovered a great love of comics and the stories therein; which, if you know my love of stories, you know is a huge deal for me.

2008 is also the first year in awhile that I've had full time employment for the entire duration of the year. At the same place, even. I know a lot of folk fuss at me for working too much, but I actually like my job. Dragon's Lair, despite paying stale peanuts, is a fun place to work with decent co-workers, great management, and awesome customers (99% of the time).

And damn it feels good. I got my year review recently. Aside from my perfectionist annoyance at not being perfect, I'm pretty pleased with what was said.

And amused. Apparently, I'm a very methodical, detail oriented person. Who knew? /sarcasm

2008 also saw me get Baptized (in a hot tub, no less) - I know some of you want pictures, or even the illicit video someone took, but I'm probably never gonna post that stuff online. Now, I'm on Church Council at the Well, teach a kid's Bible class (really young kids, too), have discovered a talent and affection for dealing with babies, and I have yet to burst into flame or be struck dead by lightning from Heaven.

Which goes a long way to proving God's infinite forgiveness in my book. I woulda' smote me a long time ago.

I've lost weight, learned that I still have the strength and endurance to hold down a job even with the fibro and arthritis. Managed to even start getting up on time without needing a cattle prod.

While these are all laudable things, and things I'm proud of, truth to tell - 2008 has been a total and complete failure of a year for me.

Talking about the big picture here?

I'm 28 - closer to 30 than not - and I'm working a job that doesn't pay a living wage, living with my parents, still being partially supported by them (and yes, there are many extenuating circumstances, not the least of which is my health and my mother's health), still without a degree for all my troubles and money on college.

It bothers me more than a little.

Looking back at my life, I also realize that I have no idea where I wanted to be when I was this age. Marriage was always a vague idea, but considering my luck with women and having seen the hell my parents' marriage is, I never really considered it a serious option.

Kids? I don't know if I'd be a good father until I get at least one book published. Seriously - I think I would resent the amount of time a kid would take and how much effort and pain taking care of a kid would cause me, to say nothing of passing my genetics (fibromyalgia, arthritis, and everything else) on to another human being...

Yeah.

A bigtime job making lots of money, with a fancy car and a ritzy place to live? Never wanted it. I never saw money or status as worth all that much. Money buys me food, books and a place to live. Other than that, it's just a lot of math and a lot of misery to earn it. I'd rather have my job that pays nothing and the contentment that comes from it than a job I hate that pays well.

Been there. Done that. Got the baggage.

Worse yet?

I haven't really succeeding in much of the writing I wanted to do this year.

Why not, you ask?

Discipline.

Back before college, I had lots of it. I could discipline myself, make myself write even when what I wrote was crap. I was able to sit down and just pound out a few hundred words every day.

Not so much anymore.

I used to be able to stay organized, stay focused, and make myself do what I needed to do, when I needed to do it, without whining, bitching, moaning or ignoring it. I could do chores, keep my commitments, and still have time for a read and a wank before bed.

Not so much anymore.

This year, I've missed opportunities to do great things, dropped the ball on commitments I've made, and left some folk hanging in a lurch; friendships have faded, with little to take their place. I've missed opportunities for what could be great friendships (or, at least people I could help out a bit), and been unable to step up all the times I needed to.

And that bothers me, more than a little bit.

The shift hasn't happened overnight, or even over the course of a single year.

I partially blame it on college. Going to Stedwards was a good thing for me, because I learned a lot, discovered I had fibro, got engaged, got dumped, got voted off the island, and discovered I really just might have the skill to be a successful writer.

But going to Stewards required a different kind of discipline than I had used before. When I was living at home, my parents didn't ask me to do chores - they asked me to do homework. My grades were fantastic and reflected my academic discipline. It was okay to be a bit frazzled and a bit disorganized.

Not so much anymore.

I really sat down and noticed it a few weeks back, right around Thanksgiving when I had some time off work, and I didn't manage to get a single freakin' thing done.

So I tried to figure out why. At first, it was easy to say I was resting and recovering from work, and I was tired and hurting. But even though I was, I still had energy to go play and read fanfic and watch B5 DVDs and read books and generally slack.

Which really? Isn't me.

So I took a look around, and what I saw disgusted me.

My room was a mess, disorganized and cluttered. My desk was messy, and my books are all over the place. My writing notes are scattered, and I haven't been journaling the way I need to. I've got plans-a-billion, but no action or execution or even plans to get my plans moving.

I didn't even have a 'to-do' list or an active calendar. My whiteboard was blank. My laundry was piled up, my room covered in dust, and I was drinking more soda than tea again.

Some of it is complacency on my part. Sitting on my fat ass and getting falling into a routine of feeling sorry for myself because I don't make much money and I'm always tired and always hurting.

Wah. Woe is me.

I'm better than that.

So I pulled out a fresh notebook and set about doing what I should have never stopped doing. I wrote down everything I needed to get done. But instead of doing what I've always done before and color-coded it or
categorized it or anything else fancy, I just wrote it down in pencil.

It's a fairly extensive list, and every day, I notice something else I need to add to it. But then I realized, a lot of things on there were things that I've let slip by or things that I should have been doing all along.

I also realized it's been over a year and a half since I re-organized myself; every six months or so, I used to spend a couple of days just putting myself back together. Clearing out
detritus, clutter and shit I didn't need, doing a deep-clean of my room. I would sort out my papers and files and books and would re-prioritize.

This sounds so corny, I bet. And I know my brother is sitting there shaking his head and laughing at me. My 'resets' always annoyed the fuck out of him - and for good reason.

In truth, most people do this to a certain extent; I was just more deliberate about it. They way I taught myself to deal with my learning disabilities was to control my
environment. If my brain wouldn't accept the outside systems already in place, then I would just create and impose my own systems.

Resetting those systems was a good way to keep them from falling apart around me, streamline them, and keep me from going crazy. Spring cleaning for my brain. See, part of my problem is that my brain doesn't process information the way a 'normal' brain does. It's the whole dyslexia/dysgraphia/dysplaxia thing. Most people have a mental filing cabinet, with folders and labels that are mostly organized (to a greater or lesser extent, depending on the person).

I don't.

Things don't get filed unless I force my brain to do it; and even then, small things build up in piles around my mental office, things I miss or forget or just don't need to worry about. In order to clean all that out, empty the mental trash cans, I have to consciously do it.

It also helps control the depression. Changes things up a bit, keeps me from falling into the complacency and bad habits that I've developed. Helps me take stock of things, notice tendencies I've developed and take steps to correct them.

The problem?

I can't do the physical part of it by myself anymore. I need help to get in a move things to clean and I need help to figure out where I've gone wrong, because I don't always see it.

Getting that help is the problem. I could probably recruit one or two people from the church, but honestly? They'd end up spending as much time talking to my mother as helping me. She's something of a figure of mystery and interest there, because most of them have never met her, but they have heard about her.

And the Well is about people - and my mother isa person in great need of help.

So I can't really blame them for that or ask them not to do what God may ask them to do.

Still, I have a list. I have plan. Get back on top of the day-to-day crap first. Then figure out what I'm going to do about the rest of it.

So there's 2008. A waste of an arbitrary 12-month cycle.

The good news?

If I'm going to put any stock in omens, portents and symbols, the last day of 2008 has given me a few to think on.

When I woke up this morning, I felt like shit. I hurt, I was exhausted beyond belief, the depression was kicking my ass in a bad way, and I had no idea how I was going to get through the day without breaking down.

It was so bad I even posted on LJ. If you only read my nonsense on Blogger or Inksome or who aren't on my LJ flist, you missed it.

(Thanks to everyone on LJ who commented on my post this morning. I needed the support.)

Yet, today went well. Good weather, so my pain got a bit better once I started moving. My co-workers pitched in and we kicked ass on getting things done. The store looked good when I left.

I got to go home early, even. Not for a great reason, mind, but I still got to go home early.

One of our customers, a lady I'll call B, asked to read the Katheryn story and actually overcame the Curse. She brought in a printed copy with notes on it this afternoon. She and her boyfriend ZD are awesome, and I think might end up being friends outside work.

Hell, she even wants to check out HPU and read some of the Katheryn story history.

My muse was awake today, and gave me plenty of thoughts for both of those stories, especially once BL and I chatted a bit about the Katheryn story.

She came in specifically to see me and talk to me about the story. She lives very far south and didn't have to drive all the way - but she and ZD did.

After I got Mom settled tonight, I went out to my favorite place to eat - Whataburger. I'm friends with some of the people who work there, and one of them hooked me up with her discount.

I got gas at the Valero next door to Whataburger and filled up the tank of the Mazda for $15. I accidentally gave the cashier too much money and didn't notice it - he could have easily taken the extra $20 I gave him and pocketed it and I would have thought I'd lost it somewhere.

Instead, he gave it back to me. Seems silly and incidental, but good service and good deeds seem to be in rare supply these days.

Tiny things, but - good omens, I would think.

And right after the New Year starts, I'll get to see a couple of very good friends I don't get to see often at all. I'll spend a whole day chilling with a guy who can always help me get my head on straight.

People talk about resolutions around New Year's, but I think I would prefer to talk about plans. Resolutions are what I've been making all year, and it's gotten me nowhere. I'd much rather have a plan and know how I'm going to get back on track.

Time for me to figure one out, I think.

In all truth, I don't know where I want to be this time next year. I think making those kinds of plans for me never work out; instead, I always end up someplace I never expect to end up. The long term goals are still the same - write, get published.

Instead, I think I'll focus on smaller plans, plans that will help me take things step-by-step to get to the larger goal.

I can still point to 2004 as being one of the worst years of my life; 2008 is nothing more than a blip compared to that.

So 2009? Just another arbitrary 12-month cycle that will see me writing another boring brain dump as it, too cycles out.

Hopefully, my brain will be in better working order, though.

The First Lady of Star Trek

Today is a sad day for me.

I don't know how many others on my flist will feel the same as I do, but I know a few of you will.

Majel Barrett Rodenberry passed away today.

(Yes, this post will be cliche, corny, and melodramatic. You have been warned.)

This lady was married to one of the great visionaries of our time - a man who dared to have hope for the human race, and dared to share that hope with everyone else. I can't imagine what it must have been like, or what kind of a woman she must have been to capture him as totally as she did. Nor can I imagine what it must have taken to keep his dream alive and moving after his death, nor what a heavy responsibility it must have been to try to carry on with that dream.

I can only say that Star Trek shaped much of who I am, and I am very sad to see her go; though I know she has re-joined her husband and she now flies amongst the stars with the Great Bird of the Galaxy.

All's Well

I want to thank everyone for the prayers and support while my mother was in the hospital; it really did me good to see all the comments and get all the phone calls.

Thank you.

My mother is back home, and is doing better; she's on the mend, but it'll be a long trip back to where she was before this. But we're going to be able to make that trip, so I think we're heading in the right direction. As usual, the hospital visit was hard - North Austin Medical Center performed to thier usual sub-standard of fail. The internist who treated her after she was admitted ignored a direct request from my father that he request my mother's GI doctor come see her.

See, without the attending Doctor's permission, Mom's GI doc couldn't come see her; it would have been considered assault.

So, the attending doctor (read: raving worthless fuckwit) decided not to do as my father asked. Because obviously? He knows better than the GI doc who's kept her alive and functioning in the past. Obviously, he is so omniscient and skilled that he didn't need the assistance of a specialist when dealing with a woman who has more medical problems than a med school textbook. Obviously, with only the barest of medical histories, he was fully capable of diagnosing and treating a woman with delicate and complicated health issues.

Because's he's just cool like that. He's a third-party doctor, one a service sends to the hospital to help with the admissions and such. Obviously, he's fucking Gregory House or Leonard McCoy and can avoid making stupid mistakes, like giving my mother, a chronic pain patient, a medicine that flushes all her meds out of her system and putting her on a pain med that doesn't work for her. Or giving a woman with a damaged, dysfunctional and disabled digestive system a full course of stomach-rending meds the evenning after she's been admitted to the hospital because her vomiting and dehydration were so bad she couldn't get out of bed. Or, taking eight fucking hours to get her an IV of fluids and such. To say nothing of antibiotics, because someone on two or three immuno-suppressive drugs wouldn't need those, oh no. A compromised immune system in a hospital full of germs? Why would that be a worry?

Instead, he stick a catheter in her and leaves her sitting in a room for a few hours. Admittedly there was an emergency where he was needed, assisting the on-call GI doc.

The on-call GI doc? Was my mother's GI doc.

Or, instead of being patient and getting a nurse capable of putting an IV in a patient with damaged and small veins, he just had a ham-handed intern tech jab her with a needle until she's covered with bruises the color of rotten plums smashed against a whitewashed fence by a sledgehammer. The spread pattern even looks similar - you know, all over her freakin' arm?

The emergency room floor was covered in debris - syringe caps and other, less idenfiable bits of plastic that may or may not have, at one time or another, been inserted in a human person.

The tech that moved my mother from the emergency room to her hostpial room almost got himself curbstomped into yet another stain on the floor when he was raising her bed. It had a foot pump and he was stomping on it like he was doing some insane white-boy dance at a geek fraternity rave.

One more foot pump that made her wince in pain? And my brother and/or I would have given him an urgent need to see a doctor. Luckily for him, the Fuckwit was around. I mean, with Fuckwit's careful and concerned care, he'd get well in five or six years. If he didn't die, first.

The clincher? The last time this happened, Mom's GI doc had her out in 23 hours. This time she was in three days.

She never saw her GI doc. Her GI doc was never informed my mother was in the hospital. On the night she was on call.

Mom's GI doc is a very aggressive, take-charge kind of lady. I get the feeling she's gonna staple fuckwit's balls to his stethescope.

Austinites, if you ever end up at that particular dungeon - erm, hospital - and you get Steward McKenna as your doctor, demand someone, anyone else. Say, a records clerk. Or a janitor. Or the janitor's pet monkey. The pet monkey will only bite you, give you raibies, and fling dung everywhere.

Much more helpful than fuckwit.

On another note, fuckwit gave my father his card. If you know my father at all, you realize that giving him a peice of information like your name, contact info and place of employment is tantamount to giving him a loaded gun with a pre-labelled bullet.

Dad isn't going to do anything so prosiac as sue. See, malpractice insurance takes care of that, and all we'd get at the end was whatever the lawyer didn't claim. Instead, my father is going to make his life a living hell with complains to anyone and everyone who has authority over him. Like the state board of medical examiners. The hospital director. That sort of person. The kind of person who just loves hearing about a doctor that fucked up a simple thing like 'please let my wife see the doctor who treats her for this condition on a regular basis.'

Still, Mom's okay, and that's what's important. Next time she gets admitted to that hospital (which is the only one her GI doc practices at), we're going in force. As many people as we can get. Dad can take care of Mom and I can do what I do best.

Be a royal and utter pain in the ass.

I'm the most stubborn person I've ever met. There is no beauracratic system invented I can't stubborn my way through. It hasn't been invented. God gave me a gift to put my head down and charge right in, making a right mess of things until people do what they need to do.

Dad can take care of Mom. I'll get the morons to let her see the right doctor. They won't even know I'm conning them until after Mom's doc has handled the problem.

/angry rant

On other, more random notes - the last two blog entries have usurped my blog on the Twilight movie. It's almost done.

I fit into three of my old, smaller shirts. This makes me happy.

Barack Obama is a smoker. For some reason, I like him better now. People best lay off him 'bout that, too. Yeah, yeah, bad example for the kiddies and all that but, shit. It's not like the man isn't about to start a stressful job or anything. Better he take care of his stress with nicotine instead of, say, bombing someone.

(Says the conservative. Go figure.)

Long Day is Long

Wednesday morning started like most other mornings: I woke up. I scratched, I peed, I checked email and my Dad told me he was calling the ambulance to take my mother to the hospital.

Okay, so it's not like most morning. Just some. It's always morning when these things happen. It was morning when I found out Mom was moving out - I hadn't even gotten to fully wake up for that one. It was morning the last two times Mom got taken to the hospital.

Have I mentioned I am not a morning person?

So I pulled on pants and shirt and I stood outside and waited for EMS. I listened to the sirens as they got closer, and I realized I hadn't even gotten a chance to go look in on Mom myself. The problem didn't sound bad. She just couldn't get out of bed. Too lethargic, too sick, too much pain. That sort of thing.

It's happened before. Muscle spasms cause a migraine. The migraine causes nausea. Nausea causes vomiting. Vomiting means her meds don't stay down and her blood sugar spikes. A blood sugar spike causes the gastropareisis to act up and her stomach shuts down.

Sucks balls when that happens.

So, we take her to the doctor. Only this time, she couldn't get out of bed.

It started late Monday night. The vomiting, anyway. Called her doctor, got some anti-nausea meds. She seemed to be getting better on Tuesday, until late in the night, when she started vomiting again. Enter Wednesday morning.

And me, standing outside, waiting for the EMS. I listened to the sirens getting closer, as they navigated the maze of the community we live in. I saw my next door neighbor giving a concerned look as he realized why I was standing outside.

I was calm when the fire truck got there. They grabbed their gear and came in, and started the process of getting her read. Blood pressure, meds, medical history, etc. Not four minutes later, the EMS showed up. I wasn't much help, because Dad was handling things, so I got a coke from the fridge. Odd, how normal this all seemed to me. I drank my coke, printed off more med lists (she takes A LOT of strong meds). One paramedic talked to Dad and took down information. Two others were in with Mom and were asking her questions she wasn't coherent enough to answer, so I went in and gave them answers. They paramedics were surprised at how on top of things Dad and I were and how we were able to give consistent, informative answers.

Impressing paramedics with your ability to handle complex and dangerous medical situations? Not sure how I feel about that, really.

They loaded her in the ambulance and said they were going to give her an IV. Knowing that could take awhile, I drank more coke, called dreamsaint and my brothers. Dad got her meds and some other stuff ready to go and followed them to the hospital. They took her to the hospital we trust least because the doctor we trust most works there.

No, I didn't go.

I do well at hospitals, especially when I'm needed. When I can answer questions, help Mom, help the doctors. Otherwise, I'm just a fat guy who's in the way. All I can do is sit down somewhere and read a book until someone needs me to go buy a soda or grab lunch.

I suck at sitting and doing nothing. I would have to say of all the varied and often useless skills I have, sitting and doing nothing is perhaps the thing I am worst at. I have patience. I have calm. Hell, sometimes I even manage zen. But sitting and doing nothing?

Fuck that. I have to be doing something.

Luckily for me, I had something else I needed to be doing. A most welcome distraction, and a task I've been looking forward to for awhile. I had taken today off work, because I was going to snack time with a four-year-old at his Head Start class.

A friend of mine from the Well adopted four kids, all siblings, recently. As a single mother. She is, perhaps, one of the few people I know who are more insane than I am. You wouldn't know it, even talking to her, but kids are her calling and her passion. Her job is to protect them. She's always helped raise her friends' kids - and trust me when I say there are a lot of them. About, oh...15 or so. Conservatively. Kids, that is.

She adopted her four; they're roughly a year apart in age. Two boys, two girls. The youngest (a boy) RK, is the one I went to see. His class was having this 'bring your father/brother/uncle/favorite adult male to snack' thing this week. RK asked for me to go. I was his first choice - and I was glad to do it. Flattered, even. I mean, how many times in life can a single male with no intention (or prospect) of having children can claim that they're that loved by a kid?

So I got the day off work and I went. Driving out to Bastrop was, to say the least, an adventure. Though I'm somewhat familiar with the area and the highways out there from the Kallven days, it's been awhile. So I got directions, climbed in the car and off I went. As some of you know, with the fibromyalgia and arthritis, driving is painful. Driving all the way out there? Very painful. And directions and I? Not always the best of friends. I can get lost in my own room, to say nothing of unfamiliar back country roads with signs you don't see until you've passed them.

But I made it there. On time, even.

RK was glad to see me - came running right up and wanted to be picked up. I probably shouldn't indulge him (or his sibs) as much as I do, but I couldn't say no. He stuck with me like glue the whole time I was there - he got shy and wouldn't talk at first, but there was a little girl (BK) in his class that seems very fond of him. She also, for some reason, clung to me. RK didn't want me to leave, actually - it wasn't until his class was over and he was in his after-school care program that I had to go. I could hang out with him, but the rules were I couldn't mingle with the other kids. BK wasn't happy about that.

I left him with his after-school care people and went on my way. I had to physically hand RK over to his teacher; he was very unhappy with me. BK, to my surprise, cried when I left.

It was a fun afternoon; it was hard balancing giving RK most of my attention while not ignoring or hurting the feelings of BK - but I managed. RK's teacher is an awesome lady, and very brave, teaching a room full of four-year-olds. It's not so much controlled chaos as it is purposeful chaos. She had a masterful hand with the kids, able to maintain discipline and keep control without being mean or nasty. I learned a lot just watching her for an hour or so.

I drove back home. Stopped at convenience store on my way back in for more coke. I needed the
caffeine by then (eating a snack meant for a four-year-old is not enough to give any kind of energy to man of my prodigious girth, especially when it's the only thing you've eaten that day). One of these days I might even write something about why I like convenience stores so much. Especially highway convenience stores.

I got back home, called people. Called xdrumrboi again, because I know he never checks his messages. Talked to Dad. Rescheduled the video shoot I'm supposed to be doing, picked up xdrumrboi, grabbed
whataburger, and battled traffic to the hospital, met with Dad and saw Mom. Ate lukewarm fast food (which, trust me, I'm regretting right now).

Everyone knows my mother and I don't often see eye-to-eye. Most people don't even realize why. A lot of the time, I don't understand why. I think it's because we don't see the world through the same eyes. I don't think we can.

But no matter what, she share a bond no one else in the family does - we share some of the same diseases. I learned to cope with what I have by watching her...often times, doing just the opposite of what she does, just because that's the way things have always worked. What works for her doesn't work for me and vice versa.

It seems like Mom and I aren't close at all, to most people. Oddly enough? We are. I'm probably closer to her than anyone but Dad. I took care of her for a long, long time. Did you know I drove her to and from work for years? That we worked in the same building for almost two years? That she's the one who convinced me to go to St. Edward's University? We talked every day, multiple times a day, about everything for years. She always gave advice, a lot of it bad, some of even with good intentions.

She's been trying to fix me my entire life, since before I knew there was anything wrong about me. Before I'd had the great revelation that I, for whatever reason, see the world so differently than most people. Since before I knew had I depression, since before I knew I wanted to be a writer. Since before I knew I could be a writer.

She taught me to read. Honestly? I don't think there's any greater gift she could have given me. Even now, I chew through books and reading material at a rate that astounds even me. Arrogant to say, but deal with it, folks. I can go through four or five novels in a week, to say nothing of fic, comics, and things people send me to read. I remember sitting on the floor, leaning against the foot of the waterbed, in the house in San Antonio, her bribing me with M&Ms to read word after word. I remember crying, I remember the headaches, the mental pain of trying to make the words hold still on the page. To sound out each word. She taught me using phonics, like she was taught.

She made me do it. I hated it. I hated her. I even hated the fucking candy after awhile.

She never let me give up. The only things she's ever wanted me to give up? Being a writer. Being me. Small things, really.

Well, KH, if you read this, there you go. A bit more insight to me and my mother. A tidbit or three that might give you some of the answers you want.

I told you if you read this thing, you'd get hints every now and again.

All the times she's been sick? I haven't been this worried. No matter how serious it was. No matter how bad she was. Because no matter what, she soaked up the attention. She loved being the center of attention, having everyone worried about her, thinking about her, changing up their lives to take care of her.

This time, it's different, and it scares me.

She didn't want anyone there with her.

Big change. Scary change. I wonder if it's because she's realized how serious it is, for once...or if this is worse than it ever has been.

If you're the praying kind, I'd appreciate the prayers.

For now, I'm going to try to sleep. Or, at least, lay in bed and read until my alarm clock goes off and I have to go to work.