I will not be death's handmaiden.

This week's New Yorker talks about hospice care, and reading the article threw me into vivid recollections of losing family members, not just Dad and Jesse, but my grandparents, and my in laws. Although sometimes I feel I've learned so much about coping with tragedy and death, I can't bring myself to seek out more by working in the field. It's hard enough to cope with what I've already faced, for now.

I accidentally 'went off' the Zoloft for a couple of days, and was starting to see Jesse everywhere, to miss my Dad, to cry at Inception, of all things (I know!). So I guess I'm not ready to go raw, pharmacologically speaking. I caught up yesterday, and now I'm a little more vigilant about the evening's ritual. I'm off the Prilosec, trading forbidden food for a smaller handful of medication. And I'm down to only taking melatonin to sleep, which is somewhat a tradeoff, too I guess. Elaborate story-like dreams that seem real because people's faces, and objects and places maintain their visual integrity, but then an escalator ends at a glass wall and I suddenly realize I'm late for a plane but I can't check out of the hotel because there's no front desk at the lobby, only a bar where I talk to my companion, a small child, who is my guide in this crazy world of my own invention.