December 9th

I haven't made it back to the far reaches of Winterpeg and beyond. This time, the Old Girl is truly sick. She now resides on the palliative care ward at her local hospital.  Fortunately for all of us, I know her doctor very well, back from the days when I worked as a palliative nurse. She couldn't be in better hands.
Which is not to say she is quite at death's door. She's still a Category 1 or two hurricane. If the garbage can isn't placed between the runners of her overbed table, with the table running parallel to her bed and the can near her side rail just so, you hear about it. So does the rest of the floor. Never mind you were trying to insert or remove a chair in the area so that you could yell a little more quietly into her ear. The food is lousy, that goes without saying, but when the doctor asks her how she is, the answer is always "Terrible," and when they ask her why, she says the food is horrible. One doctor asked her to give him something he could fix. She thought for a moment, and said she wasn't sleeping well. Then he fixed it.
Her hearing loss makes communication enough of a challenge  that they could use her on the Amazing Race if they came to Toronto and she was still around. Roadblock: One of you must make this old lady repeat this sentence correctly, and she will hand you your next clue: HAND ME THE NEXT CLUE. NO, NOT THE BAND IS BLUE!! THE NEXT CLUE. NOT TEA FOR TWO!! CLUE!! C-L-U-E!! PHIL, uh sorry, Phil? We'll take the four hour penalty please.
 Coupled with the non-desire to use her hearing aids, the visits are either really really loud, or relatively quiet except for the barked order of "Put the garbage can back. No, not there, there! THERE!!!" I jam her ears in anyway, and then the visit is punctuated every few minutes by "Take these out. I can't sleep with them in." I tell her I will do it before I go home. She just asks even more. Hmmm, maybe I'm not taking the hint.
She's refusing a hairwash by the nurses, giving all those oil rich nations a run for their refineries. She wouldn't let me do her hair either, since apparently I don't know how to put her curlers in. Come to think of it, I don't. Maureen, her home hairdresser to the rescue, so we will be all spiffy on Saturday. I still say when the going gets tough, the tough go to the hairdresser. Which is where I am headed to next week.
So that's how it goes. You win some, you lose some. I told one friend that I don't miss the Ex Boy one iota. But at the end of the day, The Bean has her Ian, my brother has his wife, and I would give anything to melt into the arms of my significant other, should he exist, for 30 seconds.
Thanks to all my wonderful friends and family for your prayers and support, and as usual, I will keep you posted. Our visits always end with "I love you" and that is the one gift we have been given. And I intend on taking every opportunity I can.