Rolled

Yesterday rolled and rolled. Thankfully I had Jodie as my fellow runner, we handed off to each other all day. Everyone got lunches, I was able to get our scrubs breaks between many cases. Despite being short handed, with one sick call. Not to mention the pre-holiday stress and a long schedule. By 1700 we were both pooped, with two rooms still going,but she had to work today. I encouraged her to just go home, which she normally wouldn't do. So when she agreed, I knew she was proper exhausted. I caught a wee second wind for the last hour of flurry.

We are trialing the vocera, a sort of personal intercom system. Getting the phrasing right is tricky, but it's useful, and will be better as we figure it out, and everyone has it. Like a transit system that is very small, people like it, but need it to go many more places.


Worrying over the holiday, as we are going to Dylan's brother's. I haven't spoken with any of them* for the past year, because his parents, well - his dad, treated Dylan badly, and I needed to step out of the role of peacemaker. The thought makes me anxious. And reminds me of driving out to Grandma's.

I was never given any kind of choice, visiting maternal Granny and paternal Grandma, was mandatory. On birthdays, Mother's Day, and other assorted holidays, random Sundays. Over the river and into The Sticks, La Salle Ontario for Grandma. She lived as an invalid with Aunt Madeline, her youngest, and only daughter, a rough, loud woman of uncertain temper. And Uncle Herbie, a stubby crude sort who wore plaid suits and obviously disliked kids. I was not allowed to read, although I could sometimes go outside or sit in a side room. There were no toys, nothing to do. The two chihuahuas were not friendly. Grandma only spoke French, and never got my name right, in the limited time she sat out among us, rather than staying in her bed - which worsened as she aged. I would sit with her beside her bed, but she never talked with me. In its way, it was worse than mass.

The long drive out was boring, but I would imagine myself waterskiing the many ditches beside the road. The drive back was my father yelling at me for rudeness, because I'd missed some question, dared to have a book to read, appeared to sulk or pout, was insufficiently friendly, failed to eat enough or enjoy the food enough. There was no winning, I don't think he much liked being obligated to go, so he accused me of what he dared not admit he felt.

Far worse if we'd also visited Aunt Evelyn & Uncle Ernie, who made me feel welcome, had toys, and let me go off and read, listened to me. I would be blamed for their imagined sins of "snubbing" him as well. Perhaps they did, he was difficult even when being sociable.


I know this trip a half hour drive into the valley will be fine. I know. But the memories fill me with dread. What if, what if, whatifwhatifwhatif... ?

Making cranberry sauce tomorrow to bring. Still warm it will be, with orange slice on top. No brandy, though. For the sake of the kids, not the mormons.



The saving grace is that my original kith did not celebrate Thanksgiving. This holiday is all mine own, hand crafted with Dylan right from the first one we didn't spend together, but thought of each other, as we were sent to Gulf War I that following weekend. We celebrate this time of year as our anniversary. My 28 years of having a real home for the first time.


So, I find my courage and my reality, and tomorrow will be fine. I can do this, with grace and kindness. It's not really that hard. And I have so much to be thankful for.


I will also make sure I know all of my nephew's names. Out of respect. More than I got from my grandma and her daughter.



*We wouldn't have visited with his brother anyway, only seeing them in the context of parents normally. The family is not close, because of distance and lack of common interests. Good people, just... random.