Magic Fingers
T woke up for work, pressed the camera on/off button a couple of times, and it worked again! I fiddled with it for an hour and nothing worked!
Ratchet and Clank helped me through my camera depression.
Worst Halloween Ever
I woke up at 6AM this morning to help my sis get dressed in her Dorothy costume that our aunt helped us sew together. She looked just perfect. But when I tried to take a picture, my camera fritzed out!
I’ve reset it, replaced the battery, but there must be some sort of internal error. I hadn’t even done anything with it. It was sitting nicely in its case on my desk for the past two weeks, with full battery power. And now–KAPUT!
What REALLY upsets me is that I know my camera is still under warranty, but I have no idea where the damn receipt is! I am usually obsessive about keeping receipts. I have receipts for things from 2004 that I can find! But this receipt–I don’t know if I actually kept it because T bought the camera for me, and I don’t remember if this is something he stuffed into his pocket or if it’s something that I took to hold on to. And of course, I’ve been up for an hour fretting over this, and I’m ticked off (irrationally) that he’s sleeping like a baby while I’m here freaking out.
I’ve never had a device conk out on me before, and certainly not within warranty period. This is really upsetting.
The Day Dad Died
This week’s prompt is “Hospitals.”
I don’t actually know the proper rules for participating in this site, but All Rileyed mentioned them in one of her posts, and I took a peek today and found that the prompt was something much too close to my heart.
Today was the six year anniversary of Dad’s passing. I continue to be in disbelief that he’s gone, and yet the years have deadened my senses enough that it also feels as if he was never here to begin with. Is that awful? I’m afraid of forgetting his voice and pray every night that he’ll call to me in my sleep. I miss his his hand on head, heavy and calloused, ruffling my hair.
I have trouble making sense of that day at the hospital when his lungs failed and collapsed. I remember the doctor telling me the time of death was 2:37PM, and I repeated it over and over because it seemed like something I should remember. Now I wish I had used those memory cells to remember his face and hands and hair. Especially since the death certificate states very clearly what time he died.
Lately, T and I have been obsessed with “House M.D.” (Yeah, I know we’re late jumping on the bandwagon.) And many times, when I watch, I’m secretly thinking, “Why the hell wasn’t there a doctor like House when my dad was dying?” It’s not fair that he was stuck in a county hospital sharing an ICU room with three other people. It’s not fair that the doctors didn’t care or check that the antibiotics they gave him created a vicious rash. It’s not fair that we didn’t see the doctors until he was dying. It’s not fair that the only person who actually treated us like human beings and not a nuisance was the one nurse on the first day he was admitted. It’s not fair that he died because they didn’t get the diagnosis right until the autopsy.
And yet I don’t hate hospitals. Driving by Dad’s hospital doesn’t make me angry or depressed. It’s just a big hollow building. Stone and gray. Slits for windows. People dying. People living. What was his room number? What floor was he on? What was his doctor’s name?
I have no idea.
All I know is that six years ago, I stood at Dad’s side while Mom caressed his head and told him over and over how much she loved him even though he could not have heard her, watching the heart monitor slowly come to a stop, and then , at 2:37PM, I screamed.
