I would get the pink blender bottle. I went to the link assuming I'd want the aqua, but that's a really nice shade of pink!
I'm at my grandparents' house. Some sort of doctor-adjacent person said that it's going to be "hours or days" at around 5:30 and we came over here as soon as we were able. (My mom had to go get my brother.) I was supposed to be useful due to my insomnia, able to basically take the midnight to dawn shift for whatever he needs, but I'm not in on the medication-bringing cycle except for just knowing when it is and I'm not doing anything but freezing and listening whenever I hear a sound, hoping he's not trying to get up. All the meds have his brain all jumbled up. When I came in to say hello, his speech was all garbled and I don't think he quite knew what was going on. He's been lucid for other people, though, so it's not like he's just totally drugged into a stupor.
I'd seen him gagging and hacking and hurting in his bones, but I hadn't seen him like that. My eyes starting welling up while I was standing there and I had to turn away because I was afraid he'd see. I've wanted to cry plenty of times over the physical stuff, but, though it took constant effort, I was able to hold off the tears at least until I left the room - or more accurately, until I could get to a room with no people in it. His mind being affected is different. It's a whole different level of Not Right. Knowing it's the drugs and not his brain itself is oddly comforting to me, even though it's not like he'll be off the drugs at any point. It's like that fact that the meds have him all high and/or foggy is okay because it's some side effect caused by an outside influence and he's still the same witty, well-spoken man in there.
I want to make him smile one more time. I also want to accept that I might not get to. I definitely need to accept that I haven't failed him by not magically getting some Hollywood ideal close relationship with him or getting him to dictate his memoirs to me or something. I think I'm about there, but thinking of how he isn't going to get to see me prove him right about my potential hurts so bad. I need to be able to forgive myself deep down for having depression during the end of his time on earth. I've been right here for nearly a year and a half, but I might as well have been in hiding somewhere. It's not like he's a talkative person. It's not like I ever saw him all that much when I was younger - I've visited him more recently than ever before. It's not like we haven't had nice conversations together. But it's not like I feel I deserve his high opinion of me, either. I've felt so anxious to prove it, locked in my mind with all these plans and desires while the rest of me refused to move and the world around me seemed to have no handholds to climb up. It still seems that way.
I've been sitting here writing this post and crying at my laptop, unable to see anything or anyone around me but knowing if my mom gets up or if my brother does, my face basically has a spotlight on it. I'm not crying at the moment, but my face is all streaked with tears. Ugh, I wish I could just have a bubble of silence around me while I blow my nose. Or do anything at all. I only want other people to notice I exist when I have something to say, basically.
My brother decided to tell me a few days or so ago that he thinks I have "hypochondriac tendencies" and all my symptoms are psychosomatic, basically, and if I thought I was healthy they would not be there. He wasn't trying to be obnoxious and we were in the car with my mom, so I couldn't put him on blast for it. I just briefly summed up what was on the pictures of my esophagus and told him that all the happy thoughts in the world can't magically make actual physical ailments go away, and if thinking you're unhealthy is what makes you so, my (ill-advised) desperate attempts to pretend I'm fine would have cured me of EVERYTHING long before now. I don't know WTF compelled him to once again take a page from my dad's douchebag book when my dad's not even around, but I do not appreciate it. Y'know, if I went around complaining about what's wrong, my dad would never have called me a hypochondriac and he wouldn't have been surprised at those aforementioned pics of my esophagus that showed that yes, something is legitimately wrong with me and I'm not just going to the doctor because...IDK, what would be my motive, masochism? He still doesn't take this seriously. I know he still thinks I'm a "hypochondriac" even though he's seen physical evidence that's not so. My undeveloped youthful ladybrain can't possibly know things his doesn't.
Whoa! Laptop, when did you get unplugged??
I wish the drugs would get rid of all of my grandfather's pain, especially if they're going to mess his mind up so much in intervals. My mom thinks we should up the morphine and I agree. I also know that this means even less chance that I'll talk to him again with him lucid enough to know I'm there. Multiple times tonight he's made comments to my mom or grandma to the effect of "What's all the fuss about?" when he's been alert and known they were there. He probably doesn't even know I'm here, since I haven't been needed since then and he's been asleep or out of it so it's not like I could just pop in for a second hello. The point is really to be here for Grandma anyway, I guess, so she doesn't have to deal with this alone.
Ugh. Mom. You even said I should be awake just in case. GTFOH with that "closing your eyes is good therapy" BS. No. Just no. Therapy is good therapy. Friends are good therapy. Music is good therapy. Closing your eyes? WTF do you think that's gonna do for an insomniac who's currently doubly wound up? Oh, I never tried closing my eyes! Should I not do jumping jacks and chug lattes either? OMG, GENIUS!
...It's a siggie