I had a piss-poor week last week.
Sunday, I found out that the mother of a close family friend had died. So Tuesday, I went to Granny Elsie's funeral.
Wedneday, I went to work. All day I was feeling like dogshit warmed over and served on a paper plate. I was up and down all night, later realizing I was passing a stone.
Thursday, I overslept by an hour and a half so I said fuck it, I'll stay home and finish pissing out this rock. It was out by 3 PM.
Friday, I went to work and got a text from mom that Grandpa Bud was trying to die again, they were turning off his life support and I needed to get there NOW.
I left work and went to the hospital, said my last goodbyes and watched them turn off the machines. They said it could be a few minutes or a few days.
Two hours later, I'm helping to bathe him, shaving him changing his fucking drawers (not a memory I need) and getting him ready for everybody else to say their goodbyes. While I'm doing that, he's chattering away. Not bad for a dead man.
Tonight I hear that the nurses are tired of his complaining, bitching and whining, not to mention the fact that somebody (Hmmmmm, I wonder who..... Thanks Lula and Hubbs, for reminding me) gave him a bottle of whiskey to "ease his pain", so they're kicking his ass out to die at home.
As usual, he's doing a poor job of dying.
He's still alive.