I miss her most on Fridays.

Back before we sentenced her to "The Manor", my siblings and I each took one weekend a month to give the care-giver some time off.  I can't remember what year we started this, or how many years it lasted, but I can remember the routine I followed, right down to the chardonnay.

And it shames me.

Right about Wednesday before it was my turn, the dread would set in.  I knew what was coming and I wasn't looking forward to it. 

The long drive down there.

The endless, repetitive questions.

The broken sleep.

Finnegan's Forever


This is what forever looks like to a pup

A family that will take him in

And never give him up

Loving pairs of arms that hold

And reach for him at night

Keep him healthy, warm and fed

And love with all their might

Sometimes dogs are difficult

And stubborn to the bone

That doesn’t mean they don’t deserve

A family of their own

In return they give to you

In licks and wagging tails

A trusting bond and purest heart

A love that never fails

And to that dog you’re everything

He needs throughout his years

Heart Song

It's late afternoon on our last day here in this sweet, wonderful town.  Mark is watching The Crown and Nicholas is resting. 

He had appointments on both campuses today, the first at 9:20 and the last at 1:30.  Afterwards, we went to the gift shop to pick up a few things.  A boy needs more than a collection of permanent scars to celebrate our time here.

Birthday Boy

Nicholas woke up this morning, 23 years old and better than ever.  With a heart that is healing and a wired sternum that is knitting itself back together, he is stronger every day.  Hard to believe he had OHS just one week ago tomorrow.

We had the day off so what did we do?  We walked to St. Mary's, caught the Mayo shuttle to the downtown campus where he had his first appointments, then walked around and visited all the underground shops.  It was good for Nicholas to walk. 

Follow Up

Monday number two of waking up here.  Only three more mornings to roll out of bed, our feet hitting the floor of this apartment, pieces of salt missed by the broom getting caught in the grooves of our slippers.  I think we're all ready for Florida's warm sun and our normal routines.


It's -19 degrees right now on this early Sunday morning.  The sun is up but the son is not.  He's still snug in his bed, hopefully deeply sleeping, making up for all those interrupted hours.  I have his medications lined up like soldiers ready to dispense as soon as he shuffles out of bed.

There are no appointments today.  Those are scheduled for tomorrow and Wednesday.  And I'm glad because his birthday is Tuesday and I want him to spend it without getting poked with a needle.  Even the little things seem so much bigger now.



I walked with a spring in my step early this morning in the cold, Winter snow.  It was lightly falling and continued all morning.  I was so excited to see it again, but not a fraction as much as I was about bringing my boy "home" today.

Baby Steps and Giant Leaps

Nicholas was sleeping peacefully when I arrived this morning.   His room was mostly dark and quiet,  a stark contrast from the ICU with its whirring machines and beeping monitors. 

His view here isn't as pretty but there's a blanket of snow lying on the ground between the wings.   This unit is directly across from the ICU.  I can see it through the windows. 

I'll CU Later

Nicholas got kicked out of Intensive Care just before 4:00 this afternoon.   His new room is not chock full of medical equipment,  so it's a lot easier on a mother's eyes.

I See You

On my body this morning was a pair of dark gray leggings,  wool knee high socks and fake fur lined boots,  one thermal undershirt,  one light v-neck sweater,  one puffy sleeveless vest, one large chunky winter scarf, my big long wool coat, a neck wrap, a face mask and my winter hat with the giant pom pom on top. 

Mark asked  "Where are you under there?   I can't see you".

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