Writing this in 15 minutes while I wait to hear back from the nurse with probably news of the inevitable.

Hospice people are very nice and utterly delightful to talk with. Listening to them describe their work is beyond fascinating.
I'm not as allergic to cats as I thought. I'm looking forward to having a cat again, even if it's for a shorter time frame than is standard (He's 12, after all).
My stance on life and death remains the same: life is chaos, death is order. In death, we are restored to order; until then, it's all chaos.
While resilient, the body is quite fragile – some more than others, and some by their own mistakes, foolishness, and misplaced faith in their own capacities.
It’s been borrowed time since 2013 - and little of it was particularly good.
My bedside manner sucks but I get the job done: the coming days and weeks are the curtain call on a role I've had to play – parent to a parent – for 25 years.
I can, indeed, put my fist through an electric stovetop.
I’ve spoken to more people on the phone in the last few days than I have in the last ten years and I'm still not a fan.
I don't owe anyone anything.
I am not sad though I won't rule out the possibility once the dust settles. Too much whirlwind, external and in-. Many complicated feelings.
There will be many, many Christmas ornaments, QVC chotchkes, and tea-cozy mysteries to donate. Should you require any, hit me up.
I still hate cleaning cat litter. Don't suppose I can teach a 12-year-old cat to use the toilet, can I?

Im sure there will be more but this is the most processing I can do right now. Also: Kirby is eating a plant container. Beautiful day, though. Supposed to hit the 80s and then drop into the 50s by next week. How are you? I'm fine, thanks for asking.