Metaphorical Levee

I visited my Grandfather in the care facility yesterday, and was reduced to tears. This is startling to me because he and I have never been close. In fact, I don't know that I would say I even like him. Nonetheless, the sight of him, frail, incoherent, and desperately trying to make sense of the jumble his life has become, was like pulling my finger out of a dike.

Up until this this point, I have been remarkably, even admirably optimistic about my circumstance. Before the amputation I was immobilized by despair; physical inertia had grown into mental inertia, and I didn't see the point of fighting. When I woke up from the legectomy, however, I remember thinking, "Hmmm. They took more than they said they would, but I can live with this." Ever since (nearly a month now), I have maintained a nicely balanced mix of resignation and optimism that felt too good to last. It felt like the calm before the storm, like a good, messy cry was becoming seriously overdue.

The tears that I shed for my poor, incontinent Grandfather bloomed, therefore, into a scena of operatic wailing that lasted a good fifteen minutes. It must have been startling to my parents, who have been staying with me during this trial to help me recover, but I didn't care. It was overdue, and I was glad to let it out.

And its not as though my situation is that different from my Grandfather's, after all. I thought as I overheard my father wrestling with him in the bathroom that this is what it must have been like while I was in ICU.

"NONoNONoo!"
"Dad, I'm just trying to wipe the crap off."
"NoNOnoono, NO!"
>sigh<