I hate to leave the message at the top of the page as such a sour note, so I'm filling the position with this, even though I don't really have anything to say.
This morning was fairly typical. I made coffee and washed the dishes from the night before while it was brewing. I refilled Ethel's water jug with ice and water, and made her a fresh cup of coffee (insulated cup, with a straw - she likes the straw, though I don't for the life of me know why). I woke her up and gave her the morning pills.
"We" took her blood sugar, and administered her insulin shot. I say "we", but in all honesty it's her fingers that get pricked, I'm just handing her the implements of pain and reading the meter. "My" stake in "we" seems somewhat egocentric... but I digress.
I made her oatmeal and a buttered english muffin. I try to feed her other things, but the last time I did she fussed at me. "I'm sorry, honey, but I just don't like eggs that much," she said. She's alright with sausage biscuits or pancakes as well, but they both take too long to make on a weekday morning when I have to scoot off to work, so weekdays are relegated entirely to oatmeal and english muffins at this point.
I packed her lunch. A bologna sandwich, a fruit cup, some tortilla chips, and a string cheese. Nothing elaborate, whatever will keep in a baby igloo playmate cooler with an ice pack.
She was asleep when I left.
I do hope our company returns. Ethel gets lonely. She's given so much to family over the years, she deserves to have someone come to visit.
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