Vignettes to Write

“I love what you do for me, Toyota!”

“Well, she’s had a nice life.” (nurse at Navy Hospital)

Explaining to doctors that life was still worth living to Lois and that they shouldn’t stint on medicines or procedures that would improve her longevity and quality of life, despite whatever emergency of the moment was occurring. One of her doctors, Keith Sherlock’s partner, wrote this insight down in his patient notes, saying to Buck and me, “I’m glad you told me that. It makes a difference.”

“Twitchy Baby, I’m about to die,” scenes at our home on Williams Ditch Road.  “Well,” Lois announced one day when she was sitting alone at the mahogany dining table. “This is it. I’m going to die now.” It was a tragi-comedy, like, “Okay,” I might have thought, “you said you dying in the next five minutes. That was two months ago. What do we do now?” See what I mean? We had to find a way to move forward.

Marguerite’s visit.

Baths and lotions by the staff at The Trace.

Her own furniture.

Crossword puzzles in pencil (big eraser).

Weekend visits with Buck and me when she felt like it.

Cooler of shrimp and near beer we brought to her at The Trace.

Me crying in hallway of emergency room when Lois was on a gurney and nurse was having to stick her several times for a deep arterial blood gasses check and had trouble finding a spot that would work. “You’re making me feel terrible,” the nurse said. “This is the first time I’ve had a loved one cry while a patient was getting stuck.”

Karma — making up for neglecting my own mother.

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