When I got to mom’s room Saturday she was sleeping. She just can’t seem to get enough sleep. When she did wake up she seemed so out of it and didn’t sound quite right. I met the occupational therapist who seemed like she had a good handle on mom and her personality, frustration, etc. I like her.

But, I hate this. When I’m not there, I feel guilty. When I am there, I feel sad. When people come to visit her, she is so happy to see them and she is so lucky to have them, but I just want to run out. I don’t seem to have it in me to go through the normal pleasantries. It’s like I’m stockpiling me reserves. When she gets out of here, it’s all on me. And I am terrified. Yes, I can and will do this, but it is so scary. I wish my late friend Valarie were alive. She would push and pull me in the right direction like she did when Rick had his surgery twenty some years ago. She was my rock. My no-nonsense nurse. On call and ready to help.

I found out yesterday afternoon that my mom was not given the correct chemotherapy dosage on Friday night. How in the hell does that even happen? And what does it mean? Will this ever go right?