Look, I don’t know why I’m here. Even if you could hear me, the ventilator’s too damn loud. You would think that a nice hospital like this one would have a newer model. Maybe it’s because Medicaid’s paying for all this. I dunno.Robert’s doing well. He’s responding to therapy. You wouldn’t like his therapist; I’m not sure I do. But it’s working. They tell me it’s because he’s still young. He’s young enough that we – his therapist and I, not you, of course – can work to undo the damage. All the crap you did to him while I was overseas.Still, I wouldn’t have known to take him if you hadn’t ended up here.The lines on the monitors always remind me of little mountain ranges. Up and down, like back home. Yes, my home, thanks for reminding me again. I know, I know, you were born out in Kansas, where it’s flat. Right. You always complained about the mountains, about having to walk up and down those hills. Robert asked if he could visit, but they won’t let kids on the ICU here. You had to go and overdose in some backwards place, somewhere that hadn’t heard of letting kids get closure.Then again, maybe he’s had enough closure. Anyway, it’s a long drive up here. I’m not sure I’ll be back either. I need some closure too.Still, I shouldn’t be rude. Here, let me fix the view for you.You always preferred flat plains to mountains.
January 27, 2009