WRAPPING THINGS UP AND MOVING ON

On the day my son turned 19, my mother began her final week of life. That's kinder than saying she had seven days left to live.  The only things I recall about those seven days are these:

I was scared and sad.  My son is taller than I am. And a lot tougher.  For three days, I fed my mother thickened water from a spoon. Then she stopped opening her mouth.  She spent another three days being turned regularly and injected with pain medication.  Throughout, her eyes were open, even at night.  During her final hour, Laurie (her nurse) managed to get them closed. We told her to let go.  I kissed my mother's cheek. I think she knew I was there.  Her hands felt like cold, waxed paper.

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I had a diseased tooth removed from my mouth yesterday.  The pain is finally fucking gone.  And I only bled for five hours.

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I'm enjoying the Olympics.  (Especially digging that snowboard stuff... although I'm personally more suited to curling or a crack game of Crazy Eights.)

The Dutch are good at speed skating.  And making beer. My dad was a speed skater.  He wasn't Dutch, but he made his own beer.

Is it just me or are all the women skiers and skaters extra hot this time around?

Never seen so many crashes on the downhill events.  I get a nosebleed just looking at the hill on TV.

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Ooh, look... there's a weekend up ahead.  Get the Heinekens on ice, Llewellen.   And sweet b'Jeebus,  keep the buggers coming.