Winter and the waxing Imbolc Moon
Sunday gratefuls: Kate at home. Atrial Fibrillation. Meds. Nurses. Wheelchairs. Swedish Hospital. Kate’s refuge. Kep, Rigel. Family home and complete. 3 days. On the way to Mar-a-Lago. Safeway pickup. Mary’s calendar gift. Precious. Thanks. Notes and cards from Kate’s friends. Evelyn Crane. Tom. His sister.
Kate is home. An apparently leak free stoma site. Complete with circumferential suture. Grateful to the interventional radiologists. The pulmonologists. The cardiologists.
This visit worried me. Her, too. Had me contemplating life without her. Of course, I can do it. I mean, I can do the tasks, the chores, the necessaries. She pays the bills and folds the clothes. Yes, I can.
But.
Who would share breakfast? Commiserate over the latest Trump outrage? Answer my medical questions? Who would hug me? Sleep next to me? Well, Rigel and Kep. Sure. But not Kate. Who would recognize when I slipped into melancholy and tell me? Our family would be very different without her.
Not now. Now she’s here. And today is what counts. It’s all that counts. The rest is the idle occupation of a worried mind. Today I will see her at breakfast. Hug her. Grump about pardons-are-us in the West Wing. We’ll laugh. Do a money meeting. Wonder how Ruth and Gabe are doing? Think about Murdoch getting ready to head out for Hawai’i.
I know. If you read these pages, it’s been a downer for the last week or so. Maybe longer. This is my journal, my record of being here. Sometimes it’s this, sometimes it’s that.
Kate’s home. I can turn my mind to other things. Like the inauguration. Oh, wait…
