Eventually, my flight got cancelled. Hint: it's a bad sign when the listing disappears entirely from the TV screens. But no announcement was made for another 20 minutes.
Since there are no nonstops from Rust City to Weatherwood on Saturdays, they wanted to send me on Sunday. They wouldn't let me change my return ticket, which was for Monday. But, if I cancelled out the trip, I got my frequent flyer miles back.
I cancelled, oh boy, and Miss T. and I lounged around the airport for another two hours until Beaker could come pick us up. Called up Nanna at the hospital and heard what she thought of the books I'd gotten her for Christmas. Watched the poor bird abatement truck futilely fighting the sunset starling attack with cap guns. Tried to exercise my legal right to feed Miss T. anywhere I damn please—but it had damn well better please her too, and sometimes she'd rather smile at strangers. Or light fixtures.
Current plan is to go in about 10 days, at the same time as Beaker heads to California for work. Minimize the number of days for which it's just me, just me supporting all baby needs.
Marina reports that they may move Nanna to a nursing home (yes, one of the ones my mother was in, but she was in pretty much every one in that part of the county for a bit during her last year) for rehabilitation as soon as Monday. They had her stand briefly today, and take three or four tiny steps. I'd be amazed, except that I know she did stop whining and work with the physical therapists after she broke something in her shoulder about 10 years ago.
In other news: Marina told me (as a bitter Ricky shouted from the background) that the hospital wants to investigate their household for elder abuse. Gee: a terribly underweight elderly woman shows up at the emergency room witha broken pelvis, sprained wrist, and badly bruised head, talking about how much she wants to die. Her only apparent relatives are a dumb thuggish taxi driver son and his wife, whom you mistook for a home health care aide 'cause well, she's Caribbean and 'cause she is one. Except she really is the daughter-in-law. Would you investigate?
I would too, but I'm going to call the doctor and the social worker to vouch for them. Geeezus.
Sometime I need to tell the blog about how bad it really was when my mother started cracking up for good. Back in 1997, just before Thanksgiving, the year I was doing my job search. I'd just learned to drive, and I was going back and forth to Weatherwood every other week or so. At one point, Beaker and I took her to urgent care with major head contusions—her dog had pulled her down three days before and no one had even tried to clean the blood out of her eye socket until we got there. She, and we, got asked about abuse. In separate rooms.
And in yet other news: you know in your heart that Moxie's always right, but here's more proof. On the way home from the airport we stopped at Babies'R'Us—which was really a pretty happening scene; when else can couples go to register together, if not on Friday evening?—and got a Nuby. Today Miss T. drank two ounces from it on the first try, and drained three greedily on the second. Messy as hell, but a lot of the milk actually went into her. I hope she still likes it tomorrow... 'cause she hasn't taken more than half an ounce from anything else in weeks, and the clock is ticking down to when we need to go to full-time day care.