futurebird's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- shoulders that built the house he was in He doesn't want to leave his house: have his life run by nurses in white coats, eat jello out of a plastic cup, listen to all those people dying. It�s like admitting that your life is over. So he�s fighting it, hiding the pain forcing smiles for us. He works so hard that I don�t want him to go there either. But we all worry. After all I saw him making his way up the stairs as my mom pulled the car away. It broke my heart. Grampa was holding on to both of the rails and lifting his legs slowly. His small but tough shoulders (shoulders that built the house he was in) rocked from one side to the other as he lifted him self up each step. It hurts. We all know that it hurts his knees. He won�t go until he can�t walk at all-- or worse. No I can�t think of that. I didn�t have to watch for long. The car pulled away and I couldn�t see in the window anymore. I thought of nursing homes. How I hated them. The way they smelled. Even the concept was revolting. Pushing the old away where they can�t be seen. �Maybe grandpa could get a place in my building.� I said, suddenly. �No, no.� Said my dad �He won�t go for that. He wants to live in his house.� Looking over my shoulder I could see the light go on in the bedroom. He had made it . . . again. May he go on forever I thought. 02:32:26 - 2001-01-10 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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