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Baklava as balm

Grandma Gin is a pip.

She's mending, getting restless, almost headed for rehab today, has been micromanaging the medical team like nobody's business, and is, in general, heading in the right direction.

Once I had taken care of a couple of her requests at lunch, including locating and recruiting the very patient and capable nurse tech who has been at Grandma's beck and call for several days now to help her back into her bed from her lunch chair, things got quiet.

I turned off one of the lights in her room to make it a little more peaceful, we chatted about the clouds building in the distance, covered the stuff pertaining to her immediate comfort and forseeable future, and mostly just chilled a little.

I tucked her blanket around her, and stroked her arm a bit, and could feel her relax into what would become her early afternoon nap.

Before she faded, though, she said,'Honey, you're clearly working too hard. You have big dark circles under your eyes. You need a nap, and to take some more time to live your life instead of just build that company.'

I responded. 'Gram, I always have dark circles under my eyes, it's my Middle Eastern heritage. And I'm really not working too much, just trying to make sure the important stuff gets done.'

Averse to not having the last word, she continued. 'Yeah, but those circles are worse than usual and really, when you're my age are you going to be thinking about the things on your To Do lists you didn't accomplish or regret not having more time for hobbies and relaxing and your garden?'

Well, hell, Gram. How am I supposed to know that?

And unfortunately as delicious as the baklavah is accompanied by a lovely Sumatra coffee? It's not really doing the trick.

What I may really need is some therapy. Seriously. To deal with what I've clearly been missing.


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