Been Trying to Meet You

Hey.  Yeah, hey.  So... on March 21st, Alec received a diagnosis of follicular lymphoma.  On March 24th, we found out it had transformed to diffuse, large b-cell lymphoma.  

He had been hospitalized twice, in January and February.  Week long stays.  Funny, all the brains couldn't read basic scans that said, wow, there is a mass in his abdomen that might be cancer.  Nope.  Please make an appointment with an autoimmune doctor that has a year long wait list.  Please beg and plead between Emory and Piedmont because what do you know, MyChart is randomly inaccessible even when it's linked between two hospital systems.  The best, let urology handle this!  Let the bros just shove tubes into your back so your kidneys can let the pee out.  But no, don't read that scan that clearly says, wow, that mass is probably malignant.  

Fast forward to when they figure it out, and put you on the chemo train.  Then, when they really freak out and say it has transformed, to large b-cell and YOU HAVE TO GO MONDAY, aggressive cancer, this shit is going to kill you RCHOP chemo.  NOW.  

I might tell you more a later. I don't know.  I didn't before because this chapter has been another chapter in a very long year.  And, Alec didn't want me to.  It's his life, and I respect that.  I'm not sure if I will retrace it or not. 

All I can tell you is to look to the sky, think of something you love, and take the biggest deep breath you can.  

*Title, Pixies-Chained

MacArthur Park

 Dear Kitty,

There is a lot I can't tell you right now, but it doesn't mean there isn't a lot going on.  My mom hasn't broken out of assisted living.  My foot is still fucked up, but improving.  We'll talk later.  

Love, 

Hilary

Night of the Comet

I was checking my mom out of rehab and into assisted living by six o'clock.  I can leave work at three, and the rehab was in Duluth.  I asked to leave early from work, asked to leave when the kids got out and drove like a bat out of hell to Duluth.  Part of me fantasized about ESCAPE JANET, like I was busting her out of a place, releasing her from some sort of jail.  But then I reminded myself that she should be there, getting help, but she wouldn't. 

The assisted living really said I had to get her in there by a certain time.  And, they said they would put furniture in her apartment so that she would be comfortable until I could move the rest of her stuff over.  We made it.  That's all that I can say is that we made it.  I drove like hell, got my mom out of rehab, paid her bill and got her to her new apartment that was outfitted very nicely.

But, I guess I can tell you one part, Kitty.  My mom kept talking about one "really nice gal" that she had made friends with in rehab.  My mom laid on her ass and got this "nice gal" to bring her food, etc. She had been in rehab multiple times.  When I picked my mom up, this woman busted out, to meet me.
"I'm Hayley!"  some junky ass white meth woman said.
"So now, we are Holly, Hilary and Hayley!"  she contnued.
"Yeah, thanks." I responded and picked up my mom's bags.  How much did you give her, mom?  was all that I could think.  And, yeah, put her on the same level of your daughters that are killing themselves over you.  

I brought sheets and blankets and made my mom's bed.  I had washed everything at her house because it smelled horrible.  I brought her TV because I was terrified of her getting bored and trying to leave.  I went out and bought little things and brought them back, toilet paper, a six pack of Cokes, I put the snacks I had gotten from her house and put them in the fridge.  I saw this Valentine's Day bouquet and looked at the price.  It was almost twenty dollars.  I felt guilty about not wanting to spend it.  Then, I thought of my birthday, of Christmas, of everything  and walked away.  But, I did buy her a bag of chocolates.  

And oh, we did make it.  It was a success.  

As I walked into the parking lot, I got a hot mess phone call from work.  At seven at night.  They didn't know what to do with the county visit coming up, because our school is back on the shit list.  I stood there, in the parking lot, walking them through it.  And honestly, I hoped the whole earth would open up and take me, or them, or honestly, anyone.  

Don't You Worry Bout a Thing

I returned to work six days after getting sick when I finally got a negative COVID test.  I think it took two days after dropping my mom off before the rehab started calling and saying that she wanted to leave.  I would see their number coming up on my phone and cringe.  

"Tell her if she's checking out she's going to have to fucking Uber because I'm not picking her up."  I told the desk guy.

"And look, I'm sorry.  I'm just really pissed off at her."  

"I'll tell her.  We just can't keep her against her will.  She is refusing to leave the medical detox area to go over to the therapy side, too."  he explained.  

I walked across the blacktop with a few of my students, still administering testing.

"I really wish Donald Trump wasn't president."  David announced.

"Yeah..."  I kind of mumbled.  That makes two of us.

"My mom, she no leave the house now.  She watches me through the window when I wait for the bus."  he continued.  

That poor woman, was all I could think.  I knew that she had already been deported once before, seperated from her husband and children.  They don't deserve this.   

I started looking up assisted living places.  Most won't even tell you on their websites how much they cost.  The levels of care jargon is confusing, too.  Finally, I went to the Place for Mom website.  I have seen their commercials on my Love Boat channel.  Their representatives started calling and emailing me immediately.  I hesitated, feeling overwhelmed by everything.   

"So, there are these people going around taking all the Guatemalan people away, taking them back to Guatemala."  Mercedes said, eyes widening a little.

"I am so sorry.  I know this must be really scary for your family."  I responded.

"Yeah."  she answered, her little face serious.

"My mom, she say she might just move back to Guatemala,  you know, when I am older...."  

I knew I was going to cry.  And that it wasn't fair for me to, because Mercedes was the one with the right to cry.  

The rehab called again, saying my mom was pushing to leave.  I finally returned the calls from the Place for Mom people.  Some guy really hooked me up, brought up some valuable information that I had never considered and gave me the names of three places in metro-Atlanta that my mom could actually afford with her monthly Social Security.  I made an appointment to visit one that Friday.  Then, when the rehab called again, I moved the appointment to Thursday.  

"Wagner, there are three police SUVs out front."  the text said.  

The implication was that it could be ICE.  I walked along the side of the school and peered out front, trying to see where the SUVs were from.  Later, in the hall, another teacher mentioned the police trucks.  It turned out to be the School Safety weird school police.  I was glad that the various teachers were worried about my students and wanted to alert me.  But I also wondered if ICE ever really came would they simply call and text me or help me save my kids?   My mind started going through the logistics, again.  Forty kids, obviously couldn't fit all of them in Alec's Honda.  What would we do, run?  Run to the church down the street and hope that ICE wouldn't enter?  How would I get all of them out of the various classrooms and outside before ICE got them?  Should we just hide in the trailer and turn the lights off?  Should I just get the Asian and Latino kids because maybe ICE wouldn't realize that my Black kids were immigrants too?  

I walked around the assisted living place.  It is in Decatur, conveniently located between my work and home and close to every Emory medical facility known to man.  They would administer my mom's meds, clean her apartment, do her laundry, change her sheets, help her bathe.  Three meals a day, prepared. Coffee and soup available all day in the lobby.  Nice common areas to watch TV, a little library, a lady that comes by to cut their hair, even a little store.  Rides to the doctor, two days a week.   Clubs, classes.  And the big one, a twenty-four hour clicker if she needed assistance.  No more "I've fallen" calls and me yelling at her to call 911.  I knew that assisted living wouldn't keep her on the wagon, but at least I wouldn't be the one having to pick her up off of the floor.  No more worrying about her being in that house with weird people hanging around.  Or break-ins.  

"So, what type of rehab would she be moving in from?  Physical therapy?"  the coordinator lady asked.

"Um, no.  Alcohol."  I was afraid to tell her.  I was afraid they would say no.  

"Well, I have advice.  Take her cards and do a factory reset on her phone.  And, I can help run interference.  Technically, alcohol isn't safe for her to have with her medication so I have a good reason not to accept delivery or to remove it from her kitchen.  Take her directly from the rehab to here.  Do not let her back in that house."  

By the end of the visit, the coordinator saw that I was starting to cry and hugged me.  

I asked the rehab to have my mom call me and she finally did.  I was shocked at how normal she sounded, how much better she sounded than even a few days ago when I dropped her off. 

"Mom, I understand that you want to leave.  I want you to go into assisted living.  It is not safe the way you have been living.   The drinking, the falling, the break-ins, weird people in your house.  It's not safe mom."

"You know, I think you're right."  she responded.  

"I found a place.  It is in City of Decatur.  It's within your monthly budget.  They will clean your apartment, they'll cook all your meals, they even clean and change your sheets and help you bathe if you need it."

"You're kidding, that sounds great!"  she responded.

I was shocked.  

"But mom, you can't check yourself out of the rehab.  I am begging you.  You have to stay until Monday.  They don't allow move-ins on the weekends.  Please mom, don't check yourself out."  

I was crying again.  

"I won't."  she said.  

"I will see you on Monday."  

The Sunny Side of the Street

The day after my birthday, I pulled up to my mom's house.  She was sitting inside, acting weird.  I saw a check made out for two hundred dollars to a person I had never heard of.  I thought I had taken all of her checks away.  

"What is this?"  I asked.

"Oh it's for this guy that is fixing a door at Holly's house."  she answered.

What the fuck?  No one is fixing a door at my sister's house and my mom wouldn't be the one paying him.  More weird stories and lies.  I found myself getting irritated already and slid the check into my purse.  And the rest of the checkbook.  Oddly, she had packed a bag for rehab, though I had already packed her one.  I grabbed them both and put them in the trunk, then loaded her up.  We were snapping at each other the whole time.  As I started to drive, I looked up in rearview mirror and realized she wasn't wearing her hearing aids.

"Mom, you are going to rehab.  You are supposed to participate in therapy and you don't have your hearing aids?!!"  I asked, incredulous.  

She kind of shrugged, clearly not giving a shit.

I turned around and roared back to her house.  When I pulled up, a large white pickup truck was in the driveway.  A man sat inside the truck and a woman was on the front porch.  They had a rather meth look to them.  I walked up to the porch.

"Yes?"  I said to the woman, mentally daring her to come at me.  She might be some methed out cracker, but I was angry enough to beat anyone's ass.

"So Janet, she uh, you know, I pick her up when she can't get up.  And uh, she said she'd give me some money...."

"Well, she's right there in the backseat of my car.  Go talk to her."  I answered, then I went inside to look for her fucking hearing aids.  Work it out with your buddies, mom.  Work it out.  

After finding one hearing aid, I walked back outside.  The woman was talking to my mom through the window of the car.

"So, did you give her her money?"  I asked my mom curtly.

"Yes..." my mom said, uncertainly.

I looked at the woman.  She shook her head.

"Is that what this fucking check was for mom?  The one made out to John?"  I continued.

The meth people nodded their meth heads up and down.

I handed the woman the check, the woman that I assume was the mysterious Patty.  They jumped in the truck and pulled away immediately.  

"Jesus Christ, mom.  Jesus Christ."  I said, pulling out of the driveway.

We drove to Duluth in silence.  When we got to the rehab, a nurse came out to begin the intake process.  My mom was trying to be cute, just a charming little old lady.  I was waiting for my mom to sabotage it, waiting for them to say they couldn't take her.  The vibe between us was palpably tense.  

"How many drinks do you have a day?"  the nurse asked.

"I have two a day."  my mom said brightly.

"Quit lying, mom."  I interjected.  She was about to kick up nearly twenty thousand dollars, but still lying.  

"She goes through one of those big giant rum bottles with the handle on it every few days and even throws wine into the mix on top of it."  

"I'm a drunk."  my mom said dramatically.

I could tell that she thought that would shock them, an old lady saying she was a drunk.

"I tried pot once."  she continued, giggling.

No one else was laughing.  

"Her meds are a mess."  the intake nurse announced.  

"This stuff does not make any sense together."  

"Yeah, I've been trying to get her to a new doctor to get everything straightened out...."  I answered, getting nervous.  

I was surprised when they indicated they would take her.  They would start her on medical detox and then move her over to the therapy side in a couple of days.  It was time to pay.  I had checked her account that morning and was surprised that she had moved the money into her checking account so that I could pay for her rehab.  Something weird was going on with the payment.  I ended up calling them, telling them they had to let this payment through.  My mom kept putting her phone on speaker, some crazy bullshit was caterwauling through the reception area.  I was ready to explode.  Finally, she transferred the money to my account and I paid with my card.  

"Um, can I leave now?"  I asked the man at the desk, quietly.

"Uh, people usually wait until they take them in the back, but uh,  you can leave it you want....."  he said hesitantly.  

I waited.  Finally a man came up, grabbed my mom's bags and told her to come back.  She sort of sat there like she expected him to carry her, too.  Then, she got up and walked with her walker through the door to treatment area.

She didn't even look over her shoulder at me.   She didn't even say goodbye.  

When Charles Bukowski is Your Mom

And it never really ends.  

My mom kept calling and texting from the hospital, telling me she wanted to go home.  The hospital kept calling, saying the same things I had heard in November.  We think she needs physical therapy rehab.  Wait, no she doesn't.  We'll send home health care.  Fine, I kept saying, fine.  I already knew how all of this goes.  I started looking up alcohol rehabs, private ones this time, expensive ones, since my mom had balked at going to the free, state-run one in December.  My mom was really harassing me to pick her up.

"Mom, I have COVID."  I told her.  Don't think it's a great idea to pick you up.  
She didn't even blink and kept demanding I pick her up.  She sent me "Betsy's" number, saying she had discharge orders, demanding I call her.   Betsy said she had no discharge orders.  I was laying on the couch, trying to keep the dogs apart, feeling pretty COVID-y.  A couple of days into my COVID extravaganza, the hospital people decided to discharge her.  I told them I had COVID and they just told me to mask up and come and get her.   

"I'm coming to get you, mom, but the only place I am taking you is to rehab."  I texted.

"Do you have your hearing aids?"  

"No."  she answered.

The hearing aids my sister and I went through hell and back to get for her in December.  The ones she doesn't bother using.  My mom texted over and over that night, telling me to turn off the light in her hospital room, telling me to help her out of bed.  

"You are in a hospital, mom.  Make them do it."  I responded.  

"When are we going to rehab?"  she asked over and over.  She even sent a message to her brother in the night, asking him when she was going to rehab.  She was addressing my brother, who wasn't even on the text.  

"Tomorrow, when you are discharged."  I told her.  

"You better call your brokerage account and get some money moved around.  It's 18k for the month and I don't have it."

"That's expensive!"  she replied.

"Yes it is, but the state-run was too ghetto for you.  Or, we can go to the 24k a month one, you pick."

She said she called about he money.

I double masked and went to CVS to buy toiletries for my mom.  Then, I went to her house and packed a bag of clothes for rehab.  The rehab intake people knew we were coming.  After, I drove to Emory.  Like most hospitals, the pickup area was like the Indianapolis 500 with wheelchairs thrown in the mix.  Someone rolled my mom out, she looked like a zombie.  She was wearing a hospital gown.  She got in the back seat and wouldn't put on her seatbelt until the valet did it for her.  I handed her a mask.  

"That's right," she said in a mocking tone.

"You have COVID."

Then, she rolled up the window in the car.  I rolled it back down and drove toward her house.  She had to put clothes on and get those hearing aids before I could take her to rehab.  When we arrived at her house, she said she could not stand up to get out of our car.  I waited.  She had to be able to do basic life things to go to rehab, stand up, use her walker, put clothes on.  In December, the at-home physical therapist said she didn't even need physical therapy, that the more she moved around, the stronger she would get.  And, the longer she stayed off of booze.  She had to start now.  If they saw her like this, they wouldn't take her.  We were in the driveway for at least fifteen minutes.

"How did you get out of your bed at the hospital?"  

"People HELPED me."  she said, her tone nasty.  

Yeah, because I never help you with anything, do I mom?   Never.  

I grabbed her arm and got her to stand up and use the walker.  I heard a shitting noise and realized my mom probably just took a shit on the seat of Alec's car.  She went inside and I waited outside, mainly because I was still worried about giving her COVID.   After waiting for a while, I finally looked in.  She was sitting on a chair in her living room, looking at her phone.

"Are we going to rehab or not?"  I asked her, even though I knew the answer.  

"Just put me to bed."  she responded.  

I was furious.  I was having fever spikes and started sweating.  She stood up and started rolling toward her bedroom.  I could see her whole ass hanging out from the hospital gown and blood on the sleeves of the sweatshirt she wore underneath.  A fucking turd hung from the side of the gown.  I turned around and left.

As I walked across her front porch, I heard a thud from inside.  I stood out there and called the rehab.

"I'm sorry."  I said.

"She's refusing to come."

"This is where she really needs to be, with us."  the counselor responded.

"I know."  I said, starting to cry.

"I can't make her go." 

I almost left, but that thudding noise I heard worried me.  I walked back inside.  She was laying on the floor of her bedroom.

"I fell."  she said.

"I hit my head."  

She was curled up on a nest of blankets.

I handed her her phone.

"Call 911."  I said and left.   

I went home.  I sat there for a while, trying to get my head together.  Finally, I texted her.
"Call 911 or I will."

"I got hold of Patty and she lifted me up."  she responded.

"WHO THE FUCK IS PATTY???"  I answered.  

"WHEN ARE YOU READY TO GO TO REHAB?"

The next morning, on my birthday, she answered.

"Today.  Help me get out of bed."

Yeah mom.  I'm still sick and it's my birthday, but today is the day, right?

She put some more unintelligible things in the text and then told me the fire department was on the way.  

"Are you back at the hospital?"  I asked.

It turned out that they gave her an assisted lift and also, left.  

"Today was my birthday."  I texted.

"If you can get out of bed tomorrow and get dressed, I will call the rehab for another intake appointment."  

"Okay."  she responded.

"I only have the clothes on my back."

"Thanks for wishing me a happy birthday, mom.  And for asking how I'm feeling.  And for asking about how my foot is healing.  And for asking about your dog."

And for packing your bag for you.  Buying you toiletries.  Arranging everything.  Play hobo all you want.  You've had more than any of us have ever had, clothes on your back bullshit.  

"P"  she responded.

I have no fucking idea what that means.  

This Land is Your Land

How many times can a person die? I've asked myself this question so many times, it just sort of shoots into my head.  

I'm not even sure where to start in describing the last month.  A few days after I returned to work I had to begin giving a standardized test to my students.  I have forty-one kids right now and it is a four part test.  It is all I have done at work.

My mom was drinking again.  She stopped for about a week and then I started seeing liquor store delivery on her credit cards.  
"This is crazy, mom."  I texted.  
"Those bottles are arriving left and right, all the time."

She blew me off.

I went by her house one Friday after school, I don't remember why.  When I walked in, it was all dark in the living room.  The place was a disaster, there were dirty dishes everywhere, blankets all over the floor, it was indescribable.  My mom was laying on the floor, wrapped up in a blanket like a mummy.

"Hi!"  she said casually, as if the whole thing was completely normal.  

"What the fuck, mom?"  I responded.  Or something like that.  

She said that she "fell".  That she couldn't get up.  She only "falls" when she's been knee deep in a bucket of booze.

I felt a rage forming in me.

"Where is your phone?"

"In the bedroom."  she responded.

I climbed over all the shit in the path to her bedroom.  And, when I say shit, I mean that literally.  My mother wears diapers and never takes her trash out.  Her dog gets into the trash and strews shit filled diapers all over the house.  I got to her bedroom, grabbed her phone and climbed back to the living room.  I plugged her phone into the charger and handed it to her.

"Call 911."  I said and turned to leave.

"I'm sorry you're not feeling well..." she called out, her tone both clueless and condescending at the same time.

I left.  

I tracked her movements over the next few hours.  I saw her dot travelling toward Emory.  Interesting, I thought.  Afraid that Grady knows your story too well?  New hospital?

The next morning, I went back to her house to check on her dog.  I have a phobia about her house.  One, people keep trying to break in and I am afraid of walking in on a burglar.  Second, it smells terrible, a combination of piss and shit.  I closed the door to several rooms that were strewn with her shit.  There was a box of wine ripped open and several bottles were missing.  A huge handle of rum, nearly empty, sat on the counter.  I started dumping glasses and putting them in the dishwasher.  The smell of old liquor was so strong I nearly vomited.  I threw away everything that could be thrown away.  I filled her herbie with trash bags and the recycling with broken down boxes.  I had to make that place at least safe for her dog.  

"I saw you cleaning up the up the porch!  Thank you!"  my mom texted, all cheerful.  

She was watching me on her doorbell cam.  I felt that rage coming up again.  Feeling pretty cheerful, right mom?  I picked up a stick in her driveway and scraped the human shit out of the bottoms of my special post-surgery shoes, then got in the car and drove away.  

My mom kept sending me random messages all day, demanding that I tell her nurse to do things for her.  Crazy messages, claiming she was being held "against her will".  Telling me that she shit her pants and wanted me to help her.  Saying that she wanted to be home.  She even posted on Facebook, calling for her nurse.  I told her to click her fucking button.  That she was in a hospital.  That she clearly needed help.  That the only place I would take her was to rehab or assisted living.  That I couldn't keep doing this.  

A good friend almost intuitively came to my aid.  I knew I had to do something with my mom's dog.  Permanently.  My heart stung thinking of him living that way, in that house, with and without my mom.  My friend offered to let him sleep over at her house that Saturday night and help me introduce him to my Temple on Sunday.  I couldn't believe how kind that was.  Hunter is a little old and funky and she welcomed him right in to her house.  After the introductions, Hunter moved in with us that Sunday.  My heart rate was literally through the roof.  We kept the dogs seperate most of the time, trying to avoid any sort of fight.  Temple is only three and has a lot of energy.  She plays hard and is not too fond of other dogs, especially in her house.  

Alec was off the next three days in a row.  He and our dog walker walked the dogs together every afternoon, slowly acclimating them to each other.  I fielded my mom's crazy texts and worked.  Everyday, even before noon, I felt exhausted.  I was congested and my throat was sore, my eyes bloodshot.  My whole body ached.  I thought my foot recovery was causing the pain and I questioned if I would ever be physically normal again.  That Wednesday afternoon, we had a really long faculty meeting.  My school was back on the bad list, the list indicating that we are one of the worst schools in the state.  I felt enormous pressure, the principal kept talking about how many of my students count disproportionately toward our school's score - they are counted for being Title I, ESOL, Hispanic, some even Special Ed.  Four times.  Some of my kids' scores are counted four times.  It wasn't ESOL scores that put us back on the bad list, but they seemed to think my kids could get them off the bad list.  At the end of the meeting one of the instructional coaches snapped at me.  I looked down and realized I was about to cry.  I felt so tired, so much physical pain, I just stared at the ground trying not to cry in front of everyone.  

I cried all of the way home.  I cried while I dragged my mom's herbies to the curb.  I cried while walking from the car and into my house.  I couldn't stop.  Hunter was in Lola's old crate in the middle of the living room so that Temple wouldn't attack him.  Randomly, I decided to do a COVID test.  I was shocked when the thing lit up like a fucking Christmas tree.  

I texted my sister.

"Happy birthday, to me."  I said, sending her a picture with the positive test.  

"Shit, I'm going to take one too."  she responded.  We had been together a lot of the weekend, dealing with the dog situation. Twenty minutes later, she texted that she was positive, too.  I thought of my friend that took care of Hunter.  She was leaving on a really awesome trip in a matter of days.  What if I gave it to her, too?

I laid on the floor in our front room on a roll out futon.  Alec had tested negative and he and the dogs were sleeping in the bedroom, Hunter in the crate and Temple on the bed with him.  He tried to get me to let him sleep on the floor but I insisted that I would do it.  I wasn't going to work so it didn't matter if I didn't sleep well.  I texted my assistant principal.

"Hey, I wanted to let you know that I have COVID.  We have been together in your really small office dealing with the testing stuff and I just really hope that I didn't give it to you."  

"Thank you for letting me know."  she responded.

"Please get some rest.  Drink a lot of fluids.  Take care of yourself."

"Thank you."  I responded.  And I really meant it.  Thank you for just being nice, for caring.  

*Title, Woody

The Snowy Day

I watched the guy that got half his leg chopped off with an axe hop around effortlessly with a stick for a crutch on Yellowjackets.  
"Asshole."  I muttered.  

I went to my doctor.

"Okay!"  he announced.

"Time to walk in the boot!"

After six weeks of no weight bearing, I tried to walk on my left foot in the walking boot.  It was weird, it just didn't work.  By the time I was able to shuffle even a few inches the pain was shocking.  The whole arch of my foot felt like all of the bones were crumbling.  I imagined the metal plate and the screws that were holding my bone in place popping out and moving, free under the skin in my foot.  It swelled from my foot all the way up my calf to my knee.  

"I have to do this."  I thought to myself.

"I am returning to work in-person in a week."

There was more unexpected horrors awaiting.  Last Saturday I dodged Jimmy Carter's funeral motorcade as it drove from the Capitol to the Carter Center.  I was trying to go to the Emergency room. I can't explain my fear.  It wasn't for me.  I returned to work Monday morning, feeling shell-shocked.  My co-workers looked at me with shock.  I felt like a leper, shuffling around.  People asked me if I should really be there, if it was a good idea.  They didn't know that it was the least of my concerns.

Every day I rushed out of work and went to visit the hospital.  I would leave when it was dark.  I felt like some weird ghost in the machine.  People would look at me, assuming I guess that I was at the hospital because of my leg.  I would shuffle along to the parking deck at the end of the visit, feeling broken.  Absolutely broken.  I would get home and feed Temple and begin the long process of bathing, making my lunch for the next day and figuring out what to wear.  What was normally a quick process took most of the night.  And I was scared.  And tired.  And sad.  

The kids came back to school last Tuesday.  My students were very sweet and I was genuinely happy to see them and hear about their Thanksgiving, their Christmas, their New Year's, their break in general.  I showed them my foot, unwrapping it from the layers of walking cast that encase it.  They stared at it.  One of my more difficult students insisted on helping me re-wrap it, carefully placing the large plastic plate on the top of my foot where the stitches used to be while I strapped it down.  

A little boy walked up to me one day at school.  He's an amputee.  He looked down at my leg.

"Now we are the same."  he said, smiling.  

I tried to smile but could only move my mouth a little.

Friday it snowed in Atlanta.  They called off school.  Alec went to work for a few hours in the morning until his idiot establishment decided that maybe opening was a bad idea.  He came home and I watched from the doorway as he and Temple played in the snow, her galloping and hopping while he threw snowballs for her to chase.  

It was a huge relief, a tremendous gift after a long and difficult week.