First, the good news...

Grandma doing much better. Might even be back home by Saturday. She's feeling better and has new meds to keep her pain-free.

And now, the bad news.

Got a note yesterday from my former therapist (who I might see again starting next February). She had her baby in October, but there were complications at birth, and her daughter was taken off the respirator four days later. If there is anything positive about the death of an infant, it's that the heart of her baby was given to a two-month-old in Minnesota. It's a bittersweet victory at best and news that gave all of us pause at Chateau Du Ryan. I'm going to try to get in touch with my therapist soon, since she's seeing clients again. I don't know what to say beyond "I'm sorry." My wife and I don't want children, but we can fathom the loss when a desired life that's been growing inside an expectant mother comes into the world, only to fade and be extinguished within days.

Education

Last night, we got that call that my grandma was back in the hospital again due to health problems. Apparently, her heart medication wasn't working, and she collapsed. Since she lives with my mom and step-dad, they called the ambulance immediately and my 88-year-old grandma is under medical care. In a perfect world, she'd have open-heart surgery, but at her age, it'd kill her. The best thing we can hope for is the application of a stent, which prolongs the inevitable. The worst news was my grandma, who has been feeling more depressed the more she loses her sight from macular degeneration, seemed to be on the verge of just giving in and calling it a life during the latest emergency.

She's in Chicago. I'm in Seattle. My wife and I were told to hold off from making an emergency flight out and wait until we fly out for the holidays in a week. I pray she'll be around, and be able to take visitors. Maybe she'll be back at my mom's home by then. It's at times like this when I can't help but feel a little guilt, wondering if I had been a good grandson to her. And then I feel a wave of shame. This isn't about me, it's about her as she gets closer to the end of her life. To know your days are numbered must be a revelation to itself. We humans know we shall die one day, but for the elderly, it becomes a numbers game. A question of when.

With my grandma more and more ill, with her body failing, with her spirits on the decline, I can't imagine what she's thinking. I won't be callous and ask her, but I hope that she shares this one last piece of wisdom with me. She'd be the first to admit that she's not a philosopher. She grew up during the Depression, worked in a factory, lost her husband nearly 50 years ago to a heart attack, lost a baby before then, and went on to keep a house and raise two children more or less alone. She's a strong woman who believed in hard work, family, the Catholic Church, polka, bingo, and handmade Polish cuisine. I imagine my world of high-speed technology, apoco literature, superheroes, and vague spirituality would be alien to her, still I know she loves me and I hope she can share what she's learned through the hard times with me. Before she goes, I hope she's strong enough for one last lesson for her distant grandson. I hope for that cinematic moment of her in a bed and me at her side, imparting me with something that will help me remember her as well as guide me. It probably won't happen. Deep down, I know she knows I love her and am grateful for everything she gave me and mom after my dad walked out on us. Maybe all I want is to hold her small, wrinkled hand one last time, and have her tell me not to worry, that's she's a tough ol' pollock, that it'll all work out.

And maybe that's the lesson right there.

So, I guess I get off with a warning

Very odd dream last night, filled with violence and fear. I'm at some weather-beaten dock, something out of a Bogart or Cagney film. All brown and windswept, yet lined in a flowing chrome. I'm in a lower part of this elaborate two-tier structure and men are coming down the ladder. I stand there ready, using a silenced pistol on them. At least 3 or 4 fall dead and I'm terrified that I have killed people. A man I don't know comes up to me (why I don't shoot him, I don't know). I'm panicking now, knowing I'm going to go to jail for murder. The man, dressed in blue and with cold, sharp eyes, coos in my ear that it's all perfectly reasonable what I did. Around me, it's dark and the water is the color of ink and somehow I know the police are close. I don't know if the dead men are the police or if they were anonymous rivals. I try to escape, but I can't find the ladder.

I wake up and realize I should lay off the pixel violence a la Battlefront 2 for a while. Played something like 8,000 hours of it this weekend. Hrm, wonder if that could warp some synapses.

Update: Come to think of it, I went to sleep angry and anxious about this stupid thing happening at work. So, there's that.