My sister performed yeoman's work yesterday. First, she helped me up when I fell transferring to my shower chair in the morning. Then she came home from happy hour to help me up after I fell getting out of bed and called her not knowing she wasn't here. Actually, I think she also came home to mock her daughter, who came into my room, determined I was OK, told me her mom was en route, then left my room and me alone on the floor. Personally, I think my niece, was a little freaked by seeing her uncle on the floor.
So my sister worked hard, but have I mentioned how exhausting it is to call for help? It's more than I like to deal with.
I actually decided to try to buy a lift system that you operate yourself. Of course, accepting that I need one made me feel pretty crappy.
And it got worse when I went to a doctor who asked how Claren was. I told him she died and said all the usual things -- she had a good life, she was old, I'm OK. I felt like saying, I can't breathe again. But I didn't.
These might explain my tenuous grip on my tears yesterday.
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