Do you remember the first time you learned about humors? Bile and blood and phlegm. I prefer not to mess with the humors of others and would rather not be reminded of the fact that we're all just keeping meat fresh. There is nothing like being in intimate quarters with an elderly person to get you over that, quickly. It is really something to witness a body in decline, and when it comes with a mind in decline, too, well... well, I cannot say it any more plainly than it breaks my heart every few minutes and then I have to go back over and let it be broken again and again and again. And "breaks my heart" is far too trite for this pain but I can't bring myself to try to put any art in it that doesn't belong there. It's pointless to polish it. It gets sprayed with blood and any crime show will tell you it's almost impossible to wash blood away.

It feels unfair to discuss Myron's parents on a blog; they don't really understand the internet in even the most basic ways.  They deserve their privacy. And yet they are such a big part of my mind that writing about almost anything else feels shallow. I read a lot of caregiver blogs a few years ago when I knew we were moving here, as if I could prepare myself for this. It's possible that if I were more open about it, other people would find what I wrote, do the same kind of homework I tried to do. Truth: The homework only takes you so far and only the practicum matters. The practicum comes with blood, phlegm, bile. Shit and piss. Tears, Christ, so fucking many.