Regret

Grandma isn't well at all. The next 72 hours will tell us exactly how much improvement she will be capable of, and will give us the information we need to make important decisions.

This all started Thursday afternoon at about 2pm. Grandma knew she was having a stroke, but for some reason called nobody. My cousin showed up a few hours later, just to check on her, and called the ambulance as soon as she realized that Gram couldn't speak. At the hospital, they ran a cat scan, some blood work, etc. and didn't see any blockages or bleeds right off the bat, leading them to conclude that she perhaps had had a mini stroke. They gave her an aspirin, some tylenol, and a sedative and put her to bed. I left her resting comfortably at about 1am; by 7:30am, she'd had another stroke, this time major. Nobody knows exactly what time it occurred, as she was not hooked up to a monitor overnight, but by the time anybody realized what had happened, it was too late.

As it turns out, her carotid artery was 100% blocked. The doctor insists that this would have happened whether they had known about the blockage the night before or not. My father has already called a lawyer, but from where I stand, the damage is done, and this is what 60 years of 3 packs a day will get you. It's horribly sad, but the spectre of "I told you so" can't help but loom in the background.

As I tend to do, I've been beating myself up a bit. I should have stayed with her overnight. I should have spent more time with her lately. The last time I saw her was Christmas, and I was mad at her at the time because she had been so rude to everyone. If I hadn't been such a bitch, maybe I would have equated her change in personality to something being terribly wrong with her.

I could go on all day about how I feel I contributed to the situation, but again, the damage is done. Truth be told, we've all been on her ass to see the doctor and get a full work-up, but she's been putting it off. "If there's something wrong with me, I don't wanna know." Classic avoidance, the calling card of my family. A family full of fucking ostriches; Christ, you think we'd learn that it gets us nowhere fast. Mildly retarded does not begin to describe.

On top of everything else, my dog is missing. My son didn't close the gate last night, and out he went. Now I have to spend tomorrow putting up flyers and calling shelters. Like I really want to be dealing with this.

Pity, party of one, your table is ready.