Surrounded by Wild Betty

I am surrounded by Wild Betty. The van is literally packed, wall-to-wall, with her clothes, her knick-knacks, shoes, plastic flowers, the detritus of lives that end in nursing homes. Her favorite onyx ring is missing. Nursing homes, even the good ones, are infamous for theft. It is the one ring I asked her guardian, and the nursing home director to lock away after it went missing the first time. The first time everyone claimed there was "little to no chance of getting it back." I had to get ugly, threaten a lawsuit and go crazy lady on everyone, but the rings reappeared. Sarah Malia, her guardian, has still not produced it. And I think she never will. It will be the one ring that matters most, that Sarah will keep. And that angers me most. My grandfather's pocket watch, is missing. There is a small gold watch, a woman's pocket watch, in its stead. They are not worth money, but the emotional value is priceless.

What I do have are mom's sheets, her bedding, her clothes, and jackets. I weep when I realize at least a third of what she has are the things I bought or gave her, or that we shopped for together. I almost forget to make room for her ashes in the front seat with me. It will be a long ride back to Virginia.  I got everything but a small filing cabinet and a tub of books and assorted other items I may need to return for. The van is overloaded. I worry whether it will make it back to Virginia.

I am angry.

Like most people, when I am scared I get angry. I am afraid the van will break down. I am afraid I will cry. I am afraid I won't cry.  I am afraid that Sarah has my mother's ring and will never return it. Sarah Malia is, in my opinion, demon spawn. I am afraid my anger will eclipse my grief. It is a half-dozen hot doughnut day. I am emotionally eating — three chocolate iced glazed doughnuts and three regular glazed. I pick up an iced coffee instead of 2% milk by mistake and I feel the world is ending. Every little thing, every forgotten thing is the end of the world. This must be grief — to cry because the toilet paper in the gas station bathroom is installed under, not over — a running argument Wild Betty and I had. I would go to her condo and flip her toilet paper over, she would come to mine and flip mine under. It was a thing we did...until it became a joke. So I turned the paper in the gas station restroom over...one last time.

And with each bite of every doughnut, I remember how much she loved hot doughnuts, black coffee, Egg McMuffins with grape jelly and the McRib sandwich. I wonder if anyone at the home knew that.  Does anyone ever care? Or remember those things about us? I have, and it makes me all the angrier that the onyx ring is gone, that her guardian did not protect her, and that she is gone.