Not what I expected, although they say...

My mother is dead, and the sense of relief is swamped by an overwhelming physical reaction. I can't seem to stop sobbing, even when there is no thought in my head. I'm not perseverating.

My whole body is in a kind of shock.

No, I'm not kidding.

Obsessing last night about my last day before retirement, and not being there for it. I don't trust that enough people will do what we did for Greg, and insist that No, it is not Wanted by the Guest of Honor. I plan to be a no-call, no-show on my last day, only letting my manager (if that person can be trusted) know ahead of time.


Fuck that shit.

We process pain and grief.

Healing will happen. It takes time and effort. The scars will remain.

Loss is eternal.

The gory photo - don't look if you can't take surgery.

This is inside now. Hutch really screwed it down tight. Healing well as a result.

Getting it done so quickly probably helped.

"Duuuude, hand me 'nother beeeeer!

My right hand is a drunken gym rat. Wild and uncoordinated. Always flexing and stretching and lifting weights.

Can't stop.

Of course I did

In no mood to go up just to get splint adjusted. Too loose for security, which is much like comfort. So, I got Dylan to trim it, since Lefty is still iffy with scissors, with a bit of steam I moulded the elastic-plastic.

So much better, snug and secure.

What a swell time

Mad strong twinges, weirdly painful, but short acting. Therapy accomplished, progress emphatic, still swold-up. Walked well, did stuff.

Pulled weeds and planted seeds, one handed sitting my butt on the ground.