We are too spent to do anything. The days that have passed felt like weeks. We still can't believe it's only Tuesday. From Huntington Beach to San Onofre, I glue photographs to cards, then get sleepy and suddenly trade the crafts box for two pillows from the back seat of the car. I snuggle up in the passenger seat and only wake up when Justin pats my leg while we pull around the off ramp. Barely awake, I help him unload the car and then lie on the bed. I want to sleep. For a really long time. He wants to go to a local bar and "get waited on and not take care of anybody." I agree to go because I want to take care of him but can't do much for him. I can't take away the conversations that lead his step dad and mother's power of attorney to tell the doctors that if she codes all they can do is give her medication. No CPR. No machines. No tubes down her throat connected to a vent to make her breathe. No prolonged painful living, which, with us living in San Diego and them living in LA logically means that she might die before we ever get close to her. Every good bye has always been possibly the last one--that's why the effort to rise out of her wheelchair, the strength to hold her up, the long goodbye hug. So what is next? Does she die in a hospital? Does she die at home? Hospice?
And the question that can only be answered once and maybe suddenly: