Updated, 20220502, to include GIF summation.

To call the last few months trying is an understatement. While not an exhaustive list, these are the events that have, for better or for worse, defined the last several months.

Mid-January: in the first big, titanic snowfall of the winter – which basically made every Friday in January a snow day for K – my 95-year-old grandfather fell and broke his elbow, precipitating a family crisis group text. He has since fully healed and is back in full working order.

Late January: on the first windchill warning of the winter, our furnace and hot water heater blew up. We were, resultantly, without heat until the next day (though my innovations of necessity with blackout curtains, eyehooks, a space heater, and an electric oven made at least part of the house warmer than it would have been had the furnace been operational) and without hot water until the following week.

Late February: my mother twisted her back. And decided – in spite of my (and others) pleadings, protestations, and outright explosions – to neglect caring for herself. The straw, the camel.

Late February (also): our refrigerator died and I herniated a disc in my back to go along with the multiple bulging discs in my spine. Refrigeration returned the week after.

(continued after GIF summation…)

February - April: a mouse invasion turned into a rat invasion (thanks to new holes in foundation drilled for new venting for hot water and heat) which turned into me a brutal rodent hunter, a skilled stuffer of potential entrances (broken glass and plaster make for an effective deterrent), and avowed fan of locktite tupperware or its reasonable facsimile. The dogs were utterly useless in any of my huntings.

Late March-April 26, 2022: two ER visits in a row after two falls with my mother led to her hospitalization for malnutrition, dehydration, and a few worrying things. Those worrying things eventually snowballed into the revelation that her liver and kidneys were borked and that her cancer had mestastasized without any of us knowing about it given that she refused to be scanned for two years. Whether she knew about it or not remains – and will remain – an open question. She died on the morning of April 26, was entombed (a new word I learned in all of this) on the morning of April 28th, back at home with her husband. I will not be visiting as I refuse to visit or mourn anything to do with that stepfathering cocksucker.

(In the middle of above: I got angry about the current situation and put my fist through the electric range. Oven = replaced. All appliances now new.)

Yesterday morning: I rewrote her obit, a private one, not in the paper (as per her wishes, which I countermanded in this private fashion because it's an in thing among the elder generation to clip obits, part of their process of processing), before sending it off to the printers for my grandfather (not the one who broke his elbow), to go along with his little keepsake of her ashes (she fit in the cupholder on the drive home) so that he could mourn her without visiting aforementioned stepfathering cocksucker for whom we were possessed of nothing but loathing.

This morning: oven, fridge, furnace, hot water heater continue to work. My back still fucking hurts. Grandfather still healed. Mother still dead. And here I am, executing final wishes and such.

The next three months: fuck if I know.