I tried to call my mother today, on her 95th birthday. On the third try, she picked up. Silence. I tried talking to her. What I got was a loud, eerie howling, several in a row. That’s it. That’s what she is reduced to. Then she hung up. It was very spooky. Picture the painting “The Scream” by Edvard Munch. Existential despair. The human condition, in your face. It was unsettling, knowing this is how any of us can end up, unrecognizable as the person we were.
I just want my son and loved ones to know now, while I can still think and speak lucidly, that I will always love them, and somewhere underneath the dreadful disintegration, I’ll still be in there somewhere, knowing they loved me back. I reiterate that they have permission to shoot me first!
On that cheery note, here are some scenes of the luxury I was privileged to enjoy while my son, granddaughter, and her partner were scattered to the winds, now headed back tonight. I believe I may have had the best deal of all. Like a Bed & Boozefest I mean Breakfast! (I didn’t drink all the booze at once; in fact, contrary to appearances, I barely made a dent.)