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the puppy is baRking

 "Chris, the puppy's barking."

I know.  I can hear her, too.  But I'm helping the PSW get you in your commode chair, then setting up your wheelchair, then bringing up towels, then grabbing my book so I can let her in and stay with her because she's not only barking, love, she's throwing up sticks and needs some supervision.

But you can't say that, you have to say, "thanks" or it will be a fight.

Like how ten minutes ago we were looking at your expansive to do list - after a night of racing thoughts because you likely have a UTI but the paramedic tested your catheter balloon's saline fluid instead of your urine - commenting how clear it was - indeed.  The list contains everything from "call Nancy" - your son's grandmother on his mother's side - to "discuss $10,000 with Chris" - a reference to your desire to give your mother $10,000.  We haven't discussed this, I hear, even though we have, we just don't agree on it yet.  But that translates to "we haven't discussed it" because you don't like how the discussion ended - which means I have another round of this coming where I will probably give in instead of fighting, because your fragile brain is fixating and it's not worth it.  Just like it wasn't worth it to protect my own mental health and now I have your mother coming here for five days, where I won't have space, I'll have to hear about AA continually, and I get to sleep on a cot and get dressed in the bathroom. 

It's not worth the fight when you're sick, but damnit I wish sometimes that someone could see that I'm drowning and just not inflict visits or conversations about money on me.  Or narrate a frustrated puppy's barking while I'm trying to support everyone in this house all by myself.

Don't mind me, I'm just blogging and using my SAD light.  

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