Sorry for the shortness of the diary.

I just got word at 6 PM CST today that my father passed away.

I know that many people here in the land of DK were concerned about his condition and it very much touched me.

I know I will probably never meet many or any of you in "real life" and I also know to some of you I am an "outsider" as a Republican (Although I often write about how I disagree with the GOP)

<More after the break>

If anyone would want, the family is taking donations (as flowers are not commonly used in our religion) at http://www.chai.org.il/... in whatever name you would see fit. (Or you can email me at houstonbfskinner at netscape.net for more information.)

This is not a full diary. I know.

I hear it now.

People will hold signs in protest.

Kos will come after me with the slings and arrows of protest.

Well, I hope in this one instance I will be forgiven. Shoot, maybe with my getting lost in my own words, usually my "emotions" which I do not talk about (After all, I am a (snark) conservative and we've no hearts and we like to do odd rituals with nuns and small packets of sugar.

(more after the break).

My 19 year old daughter wrote this poem about the war.  
From the mouths of babes...

We have know for about a year that my neighbor is dying.

He is a veteran of the Vietnam War, a proud man, pissed off as hell about the current war and this administration. Two years ago he retired from decades of volunteering with other vets when the stories from Afghanistan and Iraq triggered his PTSD. This left time to drink more and at 64 he looks to be about 80 years old.

His liver is failing, end stage cirhosis of the liver. He wants a death at home, with dignity. So why is that so hard to manage?

I'm on staff in a 20-bed specialty intensive care unit for neurosurgery patients, but our census is low today and I was temporarily assigned ("floated") to the 20-bed medical intensive care unit (MICU) at our large urban teaching hospital.

Things are always busy in the MICU. There's always somethng interesting going on. Here's my day so far...

HEALING.

It is the word we use as the destination or end point of our grief journey.  Its use implies an outcome that we may reach through time and effort and tears; it evokes the image of a place of comfort -- an oasis, if you will --  where, upon arrival, we may kick off our shoes, let down our hair, pop open a cold one and recover from the effort of the trip.

Let us suppose that there is such a state (although I am far from convinced that it is universally available... but stay with me here), and that each one of us is somewhere on that journey towards HEALING.

So... how do you know it's not an oasis (or worse, a mirage) you're entering?  How do you know you've arrived?  What is the cost of admission, and why are we forced to pay it, when we're not even sure healing is available to us?

Yesterday I posted a memorial to my cousin http://www.dailykos.com/... , who recently fell into a coma due to complications resulting from her having survived hodgkins disease http://en.wikipedia.org/... and then contracted streptococcus pneumoniae http://en.wikipedia.org/... , which profoundly damaged her lungs in a matter of hours.

Today I received news that has made the situation that much worse.

The following is a stream-of-consciousness text that began next to Mumsie's bedside in the nursing home as she slowly passed from this mortal coil we know as life. My wife ("HawkWife") and I are the sole narrators.

There are no further pictures in the main content.

Crossposted to ePluribus Media.

I realize that this is just my view from my small corner, but intense times can bring  stark moments.
One of my parents is in the last days. When I am there, I am there and do what needs doing, sometimes it is just being present.  So I find things hit me when I am away, either back at my home or when I am running an errand. Today I was out to buy some nice twin flat sheets for the newly arrived hospital bed from Hospice.

some more.....

Welcome to the Grieving Room, a weekly diary for those who have lost (or perhaps are about to lose) loved ones.

I have been thinking about how this Thanksgiving will feel.  My mom died seven and 1/2 months ago, and while I am still full of grief, I am no longer occasionally forgetting that she is dead, only to be painfully brought back to reality when I remember the truth.  I look ahead at the holiday season with not a little trepidation; so many childhood memories float up unbidden during this time, and she is the starring character.

It just came to me, however: it's going to be OK.  Turns out, I finally figured out that I LOVE to be reminded of her, and that this time of the year may be special in a way it hasn't been for many years.

My beloved Mother died early this morning after she lost a year long battle with pancreatic cancer. I posted a diary on her terminal illness about 9 weeks ago. She was 74 years old and except for the past year she lived a very healthy life. She suffered terribly the final two months a fate I wouldn't wish on anyone and if there is a heaven she is definitely there now. She was a wonderful person as well as an extremely intelligent and fiercely independent woman yet she was only married once to my father for a whopping 57 years and thank God he is still alive at 77 years old and is even practicing medicine.

'Electricity speaks every language known to man. No translation necessary. Everybody is afraid of electricity, and rightfully so.'

For my inaugural post, GreyHawk suggested I submit the following piece I wrote before we married.

As many of you know, "Mumsie" -- my mother -- has late-stage Alzheimer's.  As with most dementias, her's crept unseen for many years prior to diagnosis, but such is the child/parent bond that one knows "something" unspoken is going on.

A month after turning 13, I lost my father to cancer.  Mom spent almost all her time at his bedside.  Never once during his illness did we speak of it directly.  All I knew was that he wasn't going to make it, and there was nothing I could do.

I suppose it's natural to find yourself reverting to what I call "child mode" when a parent is ill.  For me, the mode is primal, and no, in some ways it doesn't lessen when you are a bona-fide adult.  Neither does it lessen much once your parent is in a nursing home.

Except when I went away to college, "Mumsie" and I, until her placement, always lived together.  As much as we fought when I was younger and the issues each of us brought to our relationship, there is a bond there that can never be broken.  She is my mother.  I am her daughter, despite her calling me "Mama" nowadays.  Simple as that.

I think there will always be a frightened 13-year-old inside of me...

Angel Raich , a mother of two who suffers from scoliosis, a brain tumor, chronic nausea and other ailments is fighting for her life. A federal appeals court has said, too bad. Raich, like others across the country for whom conventional drugs don't work, uses marijuana.

On her doctor's advice, [Raich] eats or smokes marijuana every couple of hours to ease her pain and bolster a nonexistent appetite.

"It's not something I want to do. It's something I have to do to survive," Raich said.

I STROKED my mother's short, soft hair for many minutes. Her eyes were closed. I had not seen this much peace in her still-beautiful, velvet face for many years. She sat motionless on her nursing home bed, erect as a Buddha. A fresh spring breeze whispered through the window.

I thought to myself, my mother's final journey has begun.

The words are not mine.  I do not write that well, and my own mother passed years ago.  They are from a remarkable piece in today's Boston Globe entitled Seizing life's precious journeys.  The author is Derrick Jackson, and you MUST go read the piece.  Now.  Before you continue reading this diary.  If necessary, instead of continuing to read this diary.  Only then will it be worthwhile to continue reading what little I have to offer.

Every once in a while someone asks me to build a website -- not my strongest skill, but with enough determination I can usually put something decent together. I've built sites for restaurants, and I've built sites for drag queens, but tonight is the first night I've ever been asked to build a site for a dead person.

I was going to post something here on Saturday, after the call came from my father that the family had decided to take my grandmother off life support. I was outraged. I was not outraged that we were taking her off life support, but outraged that this was a decision the Republicans want to criminalize. We've all been walking around with a fair amount of outrage on some level over the past six years, but this was my "this time it's personal" moment.