Granny is on Morphine most of the time now to ease her shortness of breath. Mother used to be concerned about giving Granny morphine. In fact, when the morphine was delivered back in February when the man child and I flew down on immediate death watch, Mother banished me from the kitchen when I said "Praise the Lord, there's morphine enough for every one."
Mother had momentarily lost her sense of humor. That happens when you're minding your own business and suddenly someone who's fixing to die lands in your living room. Actually, Granny has landed in my room at my mother's - I should say at my parents' house but, my father never gets a vote in domestic matters. My mother has always believed in a division of labor wherein she kept the sock and underwear drawers full and he kept the bank account full. It's worked out so far and they'll be married 50 years next October. I'll be 50 next June - back in 3rd grade when we were learning to subtract into the thousands, it turned out lots of us came along less than 9 months after our parents were married.
The morphine is making Granny itch, and she was so depressed yesterday - sitting on the edge of her bed looking like she was fixing to cry - that Mother suggested she take something-apam. It wasn't clonazepam, but it's one of those. The hospice nurse, Joe, calls them "happy pills." Less than an hour later, Granny went outside to play solitaire while Mom did some gardening. Mom didn't notice that Granny got a wild hair took off without her walker to check out one of the potted palm trees. Mom didn't notice her until she went head first into the dirt. Oops. Granny's fine.
In fact, Granny is well enough to go out to lunch, so when the man child and I go back to visit in April, for her 92nd birthday, hopefully we'll be out for enchiladas.
I really wish I could be talking to Granny during the summer boyfriend reality show. I can't remember if I told my mom anything at all about The Old Guy. She has an edited version of The Scamp, and I told her about a fellow I met last night at a Bar Mitzvah. An uncle from Atlanta, now divorced. He was a successful doctor and psychiatrist, then about four or five years ago wound up being Shrink to the Grateful Dead. I think he's still quite successful, it's just that his wife got pissed off since she was at home with the kids while he was traipsing around with The Dead doing who knows what. I can't say I blame her - but it makes a great story now.
All these handsome men with grey at their temples. This one even said, "My God, you're beautiful." He went back down south today, but I gave him my card. I'd be more impressed with myself except I think that even at Bar Mitzvahs the girls all look prettier around closing time.
My mother says I should forget all about Mr. Handsome, Charming and Wonderful for a while. I should smile pretty over dinner at the man of the moment and let him pick up the tab. There is sense in what she says, but I know Granny the Ho would know just how I feel. I'm not sure that my mother has factored sex into this equation at all - or if she has, then she's as bad as Jacy's mom in The Last Picture Show and I am only just learning it now that I'm nearly 50. Wouldn't that be a surprise?
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