Friday Beaker and I met, tearfully, with Dorothy-the-social-worker. She confirmed that there was no mention of any cardiac issues in Annajane's records. (We suspect the M.E.'s office just made up the artheriosclerosis. Malnutrition? Too weak to live? Was the broken clavicle her first experience of extended physical pain?) Dorothy was very careful to tell me that I'd been a good daughter. The hospital's priest came by as well. My mother abused him mercilessly every time he visited her. But he was always kind to her, and he was very kind to us. We signed for the $600 in cash that Annajane had mysteriously had when she arrived at the hospital.
We roared through a department store looking for undergarments for Annajane, cufflinks for me, a tie for Beaker. I convinced the drycleaner's next door to steam the red wool dress right then and there. "Is this for a party, dear? A wedding?" "A funeral." I didn't tell them who would be wearing it.
I dropped the clothes off at the funeral home, and wrote them a large check.
We went to look at monuments, since the V.A.-issued stone on my grandfather's grave must now be replaced. The first place we went, the guy kept telling us how to evade the cemetery's regulations on consent of deedholders: "They ask you if you got uncles, easy: you say you just got one! Don't even mention the other one!" I realized we could walk out, so we did.
We went to look at the current stone. Of course, what with the burial planned for the next morning, the grave had already been opened. I lost it, totally.
I started stims: 4 Gonal f, 2 Repronex, drop the Lupron in half.