The work day is almost over and went quickly for a Monday. Mondays are usually pretty rough for me.

The weekend was pretty uneventful. Friday night at the rest. was busy as hell, the place was apparently filled with asshole diners that night. Saturday morning I recovered and relaxed, then back into the chaos on Saturday night. After another hellish night I managed to get out early to go out with a friend of mine...a friend of mine who didn't show up. Nice. I stuck around work with some fellow servers and had a few beers, the first I've drank in over three weeks. Hanging out with the servers was...well...strange. I guess I'm sort of antisocial there, friendly and yet distant. They all get along well, go out after work and such, and I've never felt the desire to join in. Needless to say I felt a little uncomfortable, but the beer helped.

Yesterday was the second sunny, beautiful Sunday in a row. After walking the dogs and taking care of a few things around the house, I headed over to my parents' house to say hello. It was actually a nice visit. I enjoy being there on days when my father isn't around. I spoke with my mother and sister for awhile, then headed upstairs to see my sweet Granny to talk about books and all things English. It comforts me somehow to know that she had a little (well, not so little) gift for me...a nice pile of $20s that she wanted me to use to buy new clothes to take to Hawaii. I love that nomatter how old that I am or how financially independent I am (or should be), she feels the need to do these sort of things for me. Sort of the way she buys me a winter coat every year to keep me warm, or gives me money for gas or groceries. Sometimes I hate to take it from her, but she flutters with excitement every time she surprises me with a little "treat."

After I left the house I took a long drive in the sun, one of my favorite things to do when the weather breaks and spring seems almost present. Went shopping for a bit, a few things from Old Navy, a DVD from Borders. And yes, The Handsome Man was there and yes, I was still slightly distracted. I did, however, notice that his carefully selected vintage-hipster clothing that attempted to declare he cared neither about appearances or designer labels probably cost more than I usually spend on clothing in one year, which made him a bit less attractive. Oh, well...still nice to look at.

Drove home the long way, walked the dogs again, then settled in to watch "Lost In Translation." Excellent movie. Half-heartedly watched the Grammys while I was also half-heartedly reading a book that my sister gave me, Packer's "The Dive from Clausen's Pier." I'd heard a few things about it, though it really isn't the sort of thing I usually read. I'm not loving it, not hating it, just...thinking about it. I suppose it touches more than one personal note.

So what DO you do when your fiance who you aren't happy with anymore has an accident, becomes a quadripalegic. Do you stay? Do you go? How do you live with your decision either way?

I used to look at my parents and think...THAT's love. Especially my father, to stay with a woman who became chronically ill only five years after your wedding, to support her and love her for five, ten, thirty years. My mother was diagnosed with MS when I was three years old. My father had just lost his job in Detroit and we moved back home to temporarily (or so we though) live with my grandmother (Granny, from above).

I don't remember much from the move back, but I do remember the day my mother told me that she was never going to work again. We had just moved back to Cleveland and my parents, twin sisters, and I were all sharing a bedroom at the time. I woke up from my matress on the floor, and walked over to my mother's bed. I remember my Strawberry Shortcake nightgown. I carried my stuffed elephant, the one I still have. When she told me that she wouldn't be going to work anymore, not ever, I remember jumping on the bed in excitement. She yelled, I don't know if it was because I hurt her or because I wasn't allowed to jump on the bed, but we both watched as my father walked in the room then, dressed for work at his new job and smelling of aftershave. He was holding Luke (named after Luke Skywalker, of course), our "outside dog," and he brought him in because it was a special day. That's all I really remember from that time.

Those first few years my mother spend months in the hospital. My sisters were in school by then and I got to stay with my Uncle Jim, who watched MTV and worked on his Harley during the day. I remember always fighting with him, yet he would always take me to Bob Evans or Denny's for pancakes when I was lonely and missed my mother.

For all those years my father was kind and supportive. Then, eventually, something snapped in him. My compassion for him has since disappeared, and all I feel towards him is anger and disgust. These days he treats my mother like an animal. He humiliates her, and I wish, more than anything, that he was just leave her, that he would get the hell out of the house and let us take care of her.

He and I don't speak to eachother any more than what is required. "Hello." "How are you?" "Can you move your car out of the driveway?" I suppose I've hated him for awhile. I remember the day that he packed my things for me, I came home to find everything in garbage bags. I had to hurry up and get everything out of the house because my sister warned that he was going to disconnect the battery so that I couldn't take my car. He called me some horrible, horrible things. That hypocrite.

Anyway, I guess what I'm trying to say is that my mother, my entire family, would truly be better off if he just left. And yet how could he? After thirty years?

A friend of mind, of Sam's really, is married to a woman with MS. The last time I talked to him he told me that he was putting her in a home and divorcing her. I can understand it and I can't. I can understand her sense of abandonment, and I can understand his guilt. I can understand their little eight-year-old girl who is probably as self-sufficient as I was those days, washing her own laundry, cooking dinner, doing her homework without being told, helping her mother get dressed.

And yet, could I do it? Could I leave someone that I loved? I don't think so. Sam and I had talked about it, years ago. He asked me if he was paralyzed in an accident, if I would stay. The answer was immediate and without doubt, "Of course." I surprised him. He told me that if something like that happened to me, that he wouldn't stay.

It's funny, though, how my mind works. I've always expected myself or someone else close to me to get hurt or sick. I've always expected to take care of someone. And the night that he died, I saw it happen and yet, my mind blocked something from that moment. In those few minutes, when that horror was only mine to deal with, I ran to the neighbors for help. I wasn't thinking clearly, to be sure, my boots were unlaced and I apparently fell because I saw the grass stains on my jeans the next day. As I was running for help I remember thinking that everything would be fine. I figured he used the .22, not the 12-gauge, and that he just wanted to scare me. I figured he'd perhaps lose some motor function, maybe speech, maybe certain memories, but I knew that I'd take care of him. He was, after all, my "domestic partner," he was covered on my health insurance. I knew he'd be angry, at first, wouldn't want anyone around. I knew he'd wallow for awhile, but I also thought that I could handle it. I'd supported him for a few months, I could do it again. There was no question in my mind. I knew I would always be there to help.

So, I don't know, I guess this ridiculous rambling that has taken me past the time I'm supposed to leave the office is what I'm taking from this book. Sometimes I wish I could express what I was really thinking with words right now, but they're just too constraining.

Anyway, darts tonight. I'd better get going.