the wonders of selective grammar usage

(sigh)

I've been put on house arrest, so to speak. Upon finding out that I was getting worse and not better, Dr. Nick told me that any plans of mine to go out and run errands, etcetera were getting canceled right then and there. The only thing I am to do today is snuggle in bed and keep from doing anything at all. Basically, he's resigned me to knitting, eating soup/drinking tea (neither of which I actually have in the house), and posting in the good ol' LiveJournal.

Oh, and finishing up my GotNext review. That too.

When I told him that going out and buying soup could easily turn into a thirty-minute ordeal -- me staring at the infantry of cans, an army of Andy Warhol associations -- he asked if there was anyone that could make a soup/tea run for me. My heart let out a little yelp when he said that, for there really isn't anyone around here who could do that. The closest people who would are either sixty miles away or, well, close... but not sure if they're that close. Does that make sense? Well, actually, I'm fairly sure that they're that close, but even if I did have any way of getting a hold of them, I wouldn't dream of asking them to do such a thing.

Actually, that goes for all my friends, even if they were around here.

... it's weird, because when I think of soup runs, I'll always remember running off with Agent 00-Care-Bear to our friend Brandon's house to drop off a ginormous can of Campbell's Chicken Soup.

I guess the real reason why I don't want to just lay here and fester in my illness would be because I don't want to be in this house by myself for too long. At least if I go to the mall or to Target or even to work (which I very well may do to pick up some medicine), at least there'll be hustle. bustle. movement. Everything's so still in this house, so stagnant. Even if I were cleaning with the CD player blasting, at least I'd have something to keep the funk at bay. As of right now, with me just trying to lay in bed as much as possible, every little thought is given a chance to sink in and grab hold of my psyche.

It doesn't help that I had a pretty big fight with my mother about half-an-hour ago, in which she basically said that I don't care about the rest of the family. I'm telling you, the cure for a head cold isn't getting choked up and on the defense.

I'm just ready for this week to be over. There's been just too much everything for me to deal with.

Many of my friends are half-Korean, and because of that I've heard many stories of Korean grandmothers.  As a whole, I can't relate to many of their stories, even though I do have a Korean grandmother of my own (my father is half).  You see, to me, she was never my "Korean grandmother" -- I actually never really assigned being Korean to her until I reached late high school, college age.  My Grandma Pining was my Grandma Pining and my Grandma Rawlins was my Grandma Rawlins.

This may be because my grandmother, being born and raised in Hawaii, was as American as... well, rice and milkshakes to me.  Even though she has those tell-tale Asian features, I never looked at her delicate eyes, her tiny features as being that of a Korean's; whenever I saw her luminous face, I only saw a beauty that only grew over time.  It was as if the knowledge that she was addicted to was something that just added to her grace... like it was her serum, her OTC supplement in her daily facial regimen.

My grandmother is a compulsive learner.  She's amassed so much in that petite little head of her over the years that, even knowing that she's going to, she still manages to stun me with tidbits and snippets.  Not many people can speak of a grandmother that can knit, cook, make rosaries, read tarot cards, analyze handwriting, read palms, quote poet laureates... I could go on and on with the list.

I think that's why her last letter to me hurt so much to read.  From the start, I saw that her handwriting was shakier, something that's been progressively happening but... yes.  In the letter, she proceeded to apologize for the lack of timeliness on her behalf for both my and Lorelei's birthday card -- slightly amusing, since it's addressed to the granddaughter of hers that's notoriously bad at any form of continued correspondence.  Apparently, she had bought the cards early so they'd be sent out on time, but she'd lost the bag they were sent in.

She had been having slight problems with her memory, but things were getting a lot better.  I guess she'd taken a spill in the driveway early this spring and hit her head really badly.  Ever since, her memory's just been coasting downhill.

I could feel the pain in her pen when she wrote that the pain of senility is something she'd have to bear.  This magnificent woman... most likely the only person I've held in such regard to consider a "hero", is beginning to lose the one thing that she held dearest, the thing she's worked so hard to cultivate.  There's so much I want to tell her now, so much that I want her to realize about my life, about me that's changed.  I want her to see Lorelei again, to meet the man of my dreams, to be there when I get married someday, to see me finally graduate from college... and it just breaks my heart to know that there's a chance that, even if she is here to see it, that she won't be here.