Will You Still Feed Me, When I'm 64? (or 100, as the case may be)
The show is on hiatus this week. Usually hiatus weeks are when I hunker down and do nothing but write for seven days straight. Unfortunately, I've had some family issues to deal with lately: my father's been ill for a while, now, and he's in the hospital, so I've been seeing him. Mike's not feeling good this week, either, and since he always takes care of me when I'm sick, I, of course, have been doing the same for him. So not a lot of writing going on, and what I have gotten done, I'm not too happy with. This was supposed to be the week I punch up Chapter 3. But this puppy, for some reason, has decided to punch back, and honestly, it's really kicking my ass. I'm consoling myself with the knowledge that these are just rough first drafts, that it doesn't have to be perfect, yadda yadda yadda, and though, intellectually, I know these things are true, emotionally and creatively, I can't help but hate everything I've been putting on the paper for the last few days.
And, of course, this didn't help my mood: yesterday I met my mother and sister to tour a nursing home in our neighborhood for my great aunt Angie. Angie is turning 100 in August. She's frail, she's deaf and she can't walk too well, but she's a pistol, still, and has a great sense of humor. Right now she's living in her own apartment out in Queens with a live-in caretaker, but it's getting to be too much for my mother (who's 77) to go out there and bring her food and take care of her needs every week. Angie can't and won't live with my mother (long story) so one of the options we're looking at is nursing homes. Let me tell ya, if you really want to be depressed, go tour a nursing home. Lots of old people parked in wheelchairs in the hallways, a couple of them slouched in front of a big screen TV staring at a soap opera--and this was a well-respected nursing home, too. Now, I've got good genes, and lots of relatives who've made past 90, if not to 100, so there's a pretty fair chance I could last that long, as well. But if I did, would it be worth it if that's what I had to look forward to? I don't know. I don't think so.
And, of course, this didn't help my mood: yesterday I met my mother and sister to tour a nursing home in our neighborhood for my great aunt Angie. Angie is turning 100 in August. She's frail, she's deaf and she can't walk too well, but she's a pistol, still, and has a great sense of humor. Right now she's living in her own apartment out in Queens with a live-in caretaker, but it's getting to be too much for my mother (who's 77) to go out there and bring her food and take care of her needs every week. Angie can't and won't live with my mother (long story) so one of the options we're looking at is nursing homes. Let me tell ya, if you really want to be depressed, go tour a nursing home. Lots of old people parked in wheelchairs in the hallways, a couple of them slouched in front of a big screen TV staring at a soap opera--and this was a well-respected nursing home, too. Now, I've got good genes, and lots of relatives who've made past 90, if not to 100, so there's a pretty fair chance I could last that long, as well. But if I did, would it be worth it if that's what I had to look forward to? I don't know. I don't think so.
Labels: depression, nursing homes
