(A quick reassurance: you should think more along the lines of "Whatever happened to Saturday night?" than "Whatever happened to Baby Jane?)
I went to Weatherwood two weeks later. (Dear God, was that January? Yes it was.) Nanna was grumpy as hell and driving both Ricky and Marina stark raving mad: they were spending so much time up at the nursing home that they couldn't eat or sleep. Especially since the bus over there only runs once an hour. Baby performed beautifully, smiled and wiggled for great-grandma, and by the end of the weekend Nanna was eating a bit more, figuring out her wheelchair, and resolving to actually participate in her physical therapy sessions.
She was released home about 10 days later. Marina took out the rug she'd tripped on, and a physical therapist is coming twice a week. She's walking with a walker; next goal is a cane. I've spoken with her, um, twice, maybe? Maybe three times? I suck, and will call tonight.
Classes started. Can I tell you something? Working full-time, and exclusively breastfeeding a baby who still doesn't like bottles much, is really fucking hard. I have some terrific students now, and I'm so tickled that I can still get up in front of the room and talk and then they think and talk back—but all this eating/pumping/running around/not sleeping is wearing me down. If I were to do it over, I'd take the year off.
Oh, and then Dr. Wow got sick of my little Bartleby act and threatened to kick me off the book project if I didn't get some work done. And Miss T. caught an awful awful cold, and cut her first tooth, and I had midterms to administer, all at the same time.
But that week's over now. I'm here with two stacks of exams to grade and a wheezing sleeping baby strapped to my chest, and it'll all be okay.
(Well, as long as I can get, say, three consecutive hours of sleep tonight, then it'll be okay.)