Though you may not want to. That's why they put up the 988 signs on railroad tracks. I can't agree with them, however. Sometimes, I think, checking out isn't the worst thing.
I'll cut to the chase. My mother fell again last night. No broken bones, but a big goose egg on her shin and a bruised hip. We had to have the conversation. I can't go on like this spending 19 hours a day taking care of her. Yes. . . I'm making it about me. I've cracked. Maybe you could do more than I, could take more. Maybe you are a better person than I. I'll have to live with that, or at least take it under consideration. Or. . . .
She is recalcitrant. "I'm staying in my house," she said. "You go home and live your life."
I am afraid to tell you my response. I am not proud. Worse, I am ashamed and guilt ridden. Once you yell, you can't take it back. You have to live with the consequences.
Or. . . .
She thinks I'm still a kid and can do everything. I'm an old cripple, and I have my own problems.
And so my head swirls and topples with confusion and fear. It would be good to have someone else working on the problem with me, someone with connection. But I don't. This is a row I have to hoe alone.
So that was the chase. The day before the fall, from rising until then, had not been so sterling, either. I didn't look good. My elegance from the day before had abandoned me. I went through the day by rote. I was down and a bit paranoid, I think. The luster had gone off things. There was no twinkle or shine.
Could I be more vague? There are some things I just can't confess. I've already tarnished myself enough in the public eye.
One text did bring me relief yesterday, then later, last night another gave me a lift. And that, my friends, is all I got.
I woke this morning and started the coffee maker and then realized I was out of milk. That is today's omen. My mother is up and I need to try to make amends.
I told you. . . I'm not a good son, I'm an asshole. You'd be much better at this. I know you would.
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