Here we are at the Mayo Clinic again, whereinat for me to spend another afternoon with another damned needle in my arm.
M’jito, ever empathetic, has lost patience with my looniness and stalked out of the torture room, presumably to lurk in the waiting area…as far from his bi*ch mother as he can get. Comforting as Hell, eh?
😀
Even though this procedure is painless, I can’t even begin to describe how much I hate it. And, when I venture to think about it, how pointless it seems.
Forgodsake, I’m 81 years old. Ten of those years were spent in a Third-World country, during a time when sanitation was a foreign word. Thanks to flurries of immunizations, I got out of there without contracting a serious disease. My mother nearly died of the amoebic dysentery she caught; difficult to treat in those days…but…it did get her and her little girl out of that Hellish place.
So I don’t have that many years left. Probably no more than I would have if I were left alone to moulder away and die in peace. Sometimes I think I should get on a horse and ride off into the desert. Never to come back. Why spend any part of those years in a hospital being tortured?
Or annoying my poor son to the point where he can’t stay in the same room with me.
What, really, IS the point of staying on this earthly plane after you reach 80 or so?
None, I think.
None.
Your son just wants his bright, funny, witty mother around a bit longer than he’d otherwise get. Seems reasonable to me, but in my case I’m the daughter making her mother do these same infusions. So, it makes sense I’m on your son’s side.
I can think of one thing–we would really miss your wonderful daily injections of wit and intellect into our otherwise somewhat banal lives….. You make things so much more interesting for the rest of us!
P.S. Don’t know why your son won’t let you drive…