Nine Feet Underground

I could write a lot today, but I am not planning to.  Why am I bothering to write at all, you may ask?  Purely because of the date.  The twenty-ninth of February only comes every four years (yes, I know there are exceptions to that rule - I have written code to deal with that in the past), when it's a leap year.  I feel, for no apparent reason, I should mark this day with some words. It's starting to look a lot like E's decline has plateaued and we (the Sue Ryder nurse, maybe GP) may well decide to change the way medication is delivered.  We'll not stop giving her medication to reduce the likelihood of seizures, nor will we stop the pain-relief medication because I think everyone that knows agrees there is no turning back from that. Respite.  That's what I need, though as yet it's not easy to arrange. Maybe that will become a possibility next week. Within the family, we've been having lots of discussions about the end and how we want it to be, and where we ...

Shopping's done for another week, so I can return to our 'fortress' (or should that be prison?) until I have to go out again, walking aside. I was chatting with one of our carers yesterday, as the weekend was looming, and we agreed that though we'd both spent the week looking forward to Friday (her especially as it's her weekend off), when Friday arrived we both were thinking that actually weekends don't offer that much at the moment, other than a break from work. Every Friday I think, 'Hooray! the weekend' and then I'm overtaken by sense of anti-climax as I realise it primarily means shopping, washing, and other chores with the high spot being film night today and any other fleeting pleasures I may manage to pluck from the ether. Washing under way, it's time to read some of today's papers before hanging that 'out' to dry and starting the next load. Lunch time arrives and son #3 and I make it after I've washed up a few left over i...