My grandmother either has lung cancer or she has to have her leg amputated.  These are the options.


The logic here is that if she has cancer, there’s no real point in putting her through an amputation because she’s not going to last much longer anway.  She’s 89 and has congestive heart failure; still I have been convinced that she would outlive us all.  I guess she’s doing poorly anyway — she finally moved into a nursing home — but the last time I saw her she was still living in her own apartment.  She still walked to the supermarket, though she usually hitched a ride back.  We took her out to an ice cream place and she ordered a hotdog because that’s her favorite food.  She’s always been crazy (ahem…Zedana), but until now she’s been relatively healthy.


But lung cancer?  That’s just not fair.


Not that I can do anything about anything; I can’t even visit her because she’s in Massachusetts.  So I’m going home this weekend instead, to hang out with my mom.


On a different, happier, sappier note…


“I was just looking at my desk and realized that it’s not really my desk.  I mean, it won’t be in just a few weeks.  Then it will be Nobody’s desk for a few months before becoming Somebody Else’s desk.  Somebody Else probably won’t organize her drawers the same way.  Or put her calendar in the same place on her bulletin board.  I started to think how fun it would be to see my room done another way, but then I remember it won’t be my room.  Everything will be different, and if I ever came to visit I would only be able to think, my shoes don’t go there.  Before I remember…those aren’t my shoes.  So I suppose I should start distancing myself from this room, but mainly I want to hug my furniture.” ~ Rachel’s Xanga, April 22, 2004


That’s a pretty good explanation of why I keep tearing up everytime I think about the futon leaving today.


EDIT…Oh and PS, I dreamt the plot of the movie of “Hitchhiker’s” yet again last night.

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