My grandmother has broken her hip. She had to have it replaced with surgery.
This means that the majority of the East Coast is in an uproar. No, not the whole East Coast, just the ones related to me by this dwindling bloodline.
So my parents are racing across the country, and should arrive there by tomorrow. I'm flying out on Thursday. I leave immediately following a 12 hour graveyard shift. Keep in mind that catching a flight to Baltimore for me means a minimum hour and a half drive to the airport, the obligatory hour and a half wait due to security, a minimum two to three hour flight to an airport that is bound not to have anything that I want to eat and most likely will have to catch a ride to the other side of the airport, minimum two hour lay over in said terribly stinky small airport, and another minimum three hour flight to BWI. Each plane means tiny seats for my rapidly expanding behind (I really shouldn't stop to eat the airport food!), grumpy travelers, and usually at least one whiny child who's parents didn't think to drug the kid before embarking on a long trip.
Upon arrival at BWI, I inevitably get the baggage carousel that is furthest from my gate. I have a huge suitcase, and I'll have to pretend to smile while sporting greasy hair and mascara-y racoon eyes because I'll have been in my make up for at least 24 hours, and I'll have a whooping maybe 3 hours of sleep in me. I then have to trust my father to not kill me while driving on I-95/695 with the most aggressive drivers that I have ever seen in a state that boasts teaching defensive driving.
I haven't packed. I don't have a hotel reservation for the 13-14 days we'll be in a hotel. I haven't paid off my credit card from the last mad dash East in September. I'm leaving Hubby on Valentine's Day with a pile of debt that's going to double while I'm gone.
The only good thing is that my missing-in-action cousin has held out an olive branch. And I have always loved MIA. I've been terrified of what MIA has been told and has heard, and I've wanted to talk with MIA for months. I've got to get my arse out of bed in time to call MIA before I descend as a huge witch with a capital W on Baltimore, because he will make the whole trip worthwhile.
Don't get me wrong. I love my grandmother. I love my great-uncle. I have the related-so-I-love-you for my aunt. But I know it's not my grandmother that's waiting for me--it's a scared, lonely old woman who doesn't understand what's going on, and in that sense has become like a child. My great-uncle will be under layers of resentment and fear that he's losing his sister and that he's never going to have anybody love him, no matter how many reassurances we offer. I don't really have much faith in my aunt anymore. My parents will be stressed trying to do what's right for everyone, and therefore not taking care of themselves. And my brother has chosen to be dogsledding in Alaska instead of joining this fun (actually, I don't think anybody has told him what's going on).
And then we have the long drive home.
It's amazing that as I age, the forces that formed this family have given way, and rather than the limbs branching out while the trunk remains strong, the limbs have fallen and little seeds are forming additional trees. MIA has his beautiful family. Hubby and I are a family. Someday Bro will possibly have a family (ew, Bro with a girl?!). I just don't want us to lose the connection we had because of the big tree. I don't know how to keep our roots entwined. But I'm pretty determined to make it happen.
