It is four in the morning and I am ALMOST DONE with all of this Anthro crap. I am halfway through my paper - just gotta tear through the rest and type up four more single-spaced pages, and I have four more paragraphs to do on my take-home test. I love to press ctrl+a and double space it. I'm such a geek - it is a great sensation to feel like you have suddenly doubled your work even when you haven't.
"Can I take an anthropology final on four hours of sleep?!" I shouted at my cat, "Of course I can! I'm the queen of doing things!"
Did I mention I just drank two cups of coffee? I don't really drink caffiene anymore, so I'm sure I'll be wired for at least another hour (GOOD! I have to finish this shit!).
My mother called and talked to my brother for about an hour today - afterwhich he instructed me to pick up the phone.
I was informed that my grandpa's doctor has said that if we want to see him one last time, we should do it within the next couple of days. When my grandmother asked if he might possibly make it to X-Mas, the doctor said "maybe, but probably not".
"So," my mother said, her voice shaky, "You should probably start thinking about what you want to wear to the funeral."
"I've been thinking about it for a week now," I told her (since his condition has been quickly deteriorating for about that long).
"Nothing too over-the-top, please," she said.
"Like what?!" I responded grumpily.
"I don't know...fishnets or -"
"Mom, come on. Did I wear fishnets to Uncle Glen's funeral?" (My great uncle who I hadn't seen in about ten years, who died a few months ago).
"No, you looked really nice..."
Seriously, what the fuck kind of maniac does my mother think I am that I would wear fishnets to my own grandfather's funeral?! Sometimes I think she has no clue who I am and only sees the stuff that disturbs her. She has never even seen me WEARING fishnets, she only knows I own them.
So today after work I bought new black heels and a nice black sweater. It feels really macabre and fucked-up to be shopping for clothing for a funeral for someone who is still alive. They are already talking about whether or not to have his body creamated. For some reason that really pisses me off. I know this stuff has to be discussed, but can we WAIT until he is ACTUALLY DEAD?! Fuck's sake. It's also the terminology. "Well, they originally wanted to be creamated, but now grandma isn't sure if she wants him buried or not...". I would be much more comfortable if they didn't say "him" and said "his body", which to me seems much more appropriate.
It's not that my family is unfeeling - far from it. It's just that they are worrywarts, and worrywarts are by nature planners.
I am not going to visit him. I don't think it's a good idea. I would like to go, just for my grandmother's sake, but I think she will understand. He won't know who I am if he knows I'm there at all, and all it will do is cause me more pain. I mourned him last year, when we realized that by this time his mind would be gone. I was right when I wept to devilducky last year that "next X-Mas he won't even remember us anymore". The timing is fucking exact and it wierds me out. Because secretly we were all hoping that we were wrong, that he would hang around longer.
But he fell down the stairs and is bleeding in his brain, and it won't be long before he is comatose and then slips away altogether.
The doctors actually suggested brain surgery! Those assholes. He is almost seventy fucking years old! BRAIN SURGERY? FUCK OFF. You know better, you're doctors. Leave his brain alone, you capitalist bastards - I know at this point you are only interested in making money and not at all concerned about his quality of life.
My new sweater is really nice.
I bet my grandpa would approve. He always liked it when I dressed up. He would approve of the whole outfit. He liked it when I looked ladylike.
This is going to be the shittiest finals week in the history of academia.
"Can I take an anthropology final on four hours of sleep?!" I shouted at my cat, "Of course I can! I'm the queen of doing things!"
Did I mention I just drank two cups of coffee? I don't really drink caffiene anymore, so I'm sure I'll be wired for at least another hour (GOOD! I have to finish this shit!).
My mother called and talked to my brother for about an hour today - afterwhich he instructed me to pick up the phone.
I was informed that my grandpa's doctor has said that if we want to see him one last time, we should do it within the next couple of days. When my grandmother asked if he might possibly make it to X-Mas, the doctor said "maybe, but probably not".
"So," my mother said, her voice shaky, "You should probably start thinking about what you want to wear to the funeral."
"I've been thinking about it for a week now," I told her (since his condition has been quickly deteriorating for about that long).
"Nothing too over-the-top, please," she said.
"Like what?!" I responded grumpily.
"I don't know...fishnets or -"
"Mom, come on. Did I wear fishnets to Uncle Glen's funeral?" (My great uncle who I hadn't seen in about ten years, who died a few months ago).
"No, you looked really nice..."
Seriously, what the fuck kind of maniac does my mother think I am that I would wear fishnets to my own grandfather's funeral?! Sometimes I think she has no clue who I am and only sees the stuff that disturbs her. She has never even seen me WEARING fishnets, she only knows I own them.
So today after work I bought new black heels and a nice black sweater. It feels really macabre and fucked-up to be shopping for clothing for a funeral for someone who is still alive. They are already talking about whether or not to have his body creamated. For some reason that really pisses me off. I know this stuff has to be discussed, but can we WAIT until he is ACTUALLY DEAD?! Fuck's sake. It's also the terminology. "Well, they originally wanted to be creamated, but now grandma isn't sure if she wants him buried or not...". I would be much more comfortable if they didn't say "him" and said "his body", which to me seems much more appropriate.
It's not that my family is unfeeling - far from it. It's just that they are worrywarts, and worrywarts are by nature planners.
I am not going to visit him. I don't think it's a good idea. I would like to go, just for my grandmother's sake, but I think she will understand. He won't know who I am if he knows I'm there at all, and all it will do is cause me more pain. I mourned him last year, when we realized that by this time his mind would be gone. I was right when I wept to devilducky last year that "next X-Mas he won't even remember us anymore". The timing is fucking exact and it wierds me out. Because secretly we were all hoping that we were wrong, that he would hang around longer.
But he fell down the stairs and is bleeding in his brain, and it won't be long before he is comatose and then slips away altogether.
The doctors actually suggested brain surgery! Those assholes. He is almost seventy fucking years old! BRAIN SURGERY? FUCK OFF. You know better, you're doctors. Leave his brain alone, you capitalist bastards - I know at this point you are only interested in making money and not at all concerned about his quality of life.
My new sweater is really nice.
I bet my grandpa would approve. He always liked it when I dressed up. He would approve of the whole outfit. He liked it when I looked ladylike.
This is going to be the shittiest finals week in the history of academia.
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Take care.