Daughter of Mary Lou
Writing myself through grief. Of mother loss, death, dying, hospice, liquid morphine hourly, and living through it.
Da holy fuq? Report that prick to the highest state board. Period. That is unacceptable.
Like one time — vaguely and in a much less traumatic circumstance — when I was hospitalized as a child for asthma, a nurse finished taking my vitals and told me, with a sneer, At least you don’t have CF. Those kids don’t always go home.
What a load of shit to drop on a sick suffering child? Took years of counseling to realize that she was the guilty party in the room, not that sweet little wheezy girl.
Anyways, blah blah blah blah.
