Thursday, December 18, 2014


Yesterday I talked to a thousand people via phone or email, had a meeting with the CCAC coordinator, and made a list of acceptable nursing homes for crisis mode. I also got roughly four hours interrupted sleep because Miriam was up all night, got up to find my parents' phone was off the hook, waited anxiously for Geoff to go over and confirm that everything was fine (Mum put the corded phone handset in the bottom of a drawer), made cookies, washed the floor, and read Farmer Boy aloud.

Crisis placement happens within three to seven days. We can expect Mum to be out of the home by Christmas. Typing that fills me with apprehension and sadness. This is not how I wanted this to go, but I'm practicing being a big girl and making decisions and not screaming and running away from paperwork, There's a schizophrenic feeling to all this, because I'm simultaneously buying and making presents and making the Christmas Day menu and planning planning planning for all the celebrations,  One part of my brain is saying, "When we get the call that there's a bed available I need to talk to the social worker about transition policy", and another part is saying, "I wonder if I should make doughnuts with the kids when our niece and nephew are here?" and I feel broken into oddly shaped pieces.

Now that I think of it, it reminds me a bit of the weeks before I had all our babies- it was always definitely going to be a time filled with calm joy and preparation, and it was, but it was also invariably a time filled with crazy medical problems and awful medical decisions and nothing like the gauzy sentimental happiness that I'd imagined. I have a crummy metaphor about how Mary must have felt when she was told they had to go stay in a stable, after she'd been joyously anticipating the birth of the Messiah. It would have sucked, right? I mean, you know you're going to have a baby who will be Christ the Lord and you're going to the prophesied city of His birth and you arrive and have to go from inn to inn, getting progressively further into labour, being turned down over and over, and end in a stable. But probably Mary wasn't as idealistically stupid as I am, so probably she dealt with it very well.

I can't get out of that metaphor gracefully so I'm going to end here and go get tea and send Nat out to the dentist and start packing for our weekend trip and and and....

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