The Grading Begins

I made my deadlines for final projects way later than any other instructor I know. Most papers were due last week. Mine are due today and tomorrow. I purposely give myself that space to prepare mentally and to spend hours watching DVDs so I can get all numb in the brain and want to read words again.

This time, I'm completely preoccupied with worry about my mom. Her pain is not letting up. It is a pushy, intrusive bitch. The pain pills have failed, the giant pain patches have failed, the mysterious tingly pain gel has failed, and so has the Motrin/Tylenol/Motrin dance. She's OK when she's lying down, but one has to get up sometimes, doesn't one?

Blessing: Her doctor is actually going to make a house call tomorrow. He did this a couple times when my dad was still living at home, and I am massively grateful that he's willing to do it again. He's the doctor who visits Shiny Meadows once a week, and one of the few I would trust in my hometown. Some of them, I'm certain, obtained their M.D. from a P.O. Box in Bugtussle, West Dakota, along with a free bonus degree in heating and air conditioning and a Bobblehead doll of Ross Perot.

Which brings me to this: prayer. (Actually no. There was not even a glimmer of a segue from Ross Perot to prayer.)

There are many people praying for my mom's healing. Prayer is complicated. I don't understand it and I don't even know where to start trying. But here I am again, eyeing it warily like a tired coyote circling a campfire. Wondering if there could be something of nourishment nearby, something sustaining, or is this just a trick on my senses, however bright and warm.