Our next door neighbor, Mary Ann, took you to treatment until 1:30 or so. According to you, it was a non-event, just the typical chemo blahs. We laughed about how loud some people snore during chemo and not even know it.
It was Grandpa Wright's ninety-first birthday. I had called earlier on my way home from work to wish him a Happy Birthday. I teased you that if things went according to plan we'd be celebrating our ninety-first birthday in 2076. You were supposed to catch up with me, which was very likely, since I'd stopped having birthdays when I was twenty-nine. We planned to take up sky diving when we were eighty-five to help keep our neurons connected.
Around 5:00, Katie stopped by in-between naps because she had to work all night. Katie disappeared around 5:30 when Morgan showed up. I had just finished my Kelly Howell, Faith meditation, and you and Morgan plopped on my bed just the way you did when you were kids.
"Where's Katie?" Morgan asked. You said, "Being stupid. She didn't want to get in the way of our family time." Morgan insisted that that you call her so you did. I knew there was some history and issues but never dug any further. Ten minutes later, you, Morgan, and Katie were all sitting on my bed.
While you, Katie, and Morgan reminisced on my bed, I had a flashback to one of my worst nightmares -- not being able to save my babies from a flood caused by torrential rains. The nightmares started when I was four or five-- only my babies were my misfit dolls with bad haircuts, pen marks in places where there they shouldn’t be, and clothes made from rags. It probably stemmed from my mom reading me a child’s version of the bible story – Noah’s Ark. The full size bed I shared with my sisters was my raft – my sanctuary – to save my beloved babies. I remember waking up breathlessly trying to keep my babies safe on my raft almost every night when I little. Now my raft was king size and my babies were Greg, Morgan and Katie.
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