It’s pretty clear to me that the Schiavo situation has nothing to do with money - he turned down a million from that California businessman after all. So I don’t understand people who keep asking, “Why doesn’t he just sign over his rights to her parents?”

I feel a lot of sympathy for her parents, I do. It can’t be easy to see your daughter on the brink of death and be powerless to stop it from happening. But at the same time, I think they’re in the wrong, and I think Michael Schiavo fought so hard for the removal of the feeding tube because of two things: one, he loves his wife; two, he believes that she would not want to live by artificial means.

A couple of days ago, I was listening to the Ron Smith radio show on WBAL. A guest made note that when it came to letting our pets go, we were much more advanced than when it came to people — I have, thankfully, never been in the position of having a vet say to me, “She doesn’t have long to live. It would be best to put her to sleep.” I don’t think anyone says, “No, I want my pet to go on artificial life support on the one in one million chance they may recover.” That same guest noted that when we hear those same odds given to someone we’re close to, we interpret it as “fifty/fifty.”

My parents had to put our cat Bashful to sleep, and while it was difficult — she’d been with us for eighteen years — what made it easy was knowing she’d lived a long, full, mostly happy life (when I wasn’t chasing her around yanking her tail). The same with my grandfather, who died in November ‘03 — he fell ill, I don’t know that he was in a coma, but he slept through his last few days in a bed in his living room, moaning in pain in his sleep. His death was cushioned by knowing that he was out of pain, and that he’d lived a really long, and happy life (his only wish was to survive his wife, sons, and grandkids, and he did).

It is, in a sense, tragic that Terri Schiavo wasn’t shot in the head, or crushed by a truck. Her family would have grieved, and moved on. Instead we have the family divided, each believing they’re doing what in Terri’s best interests. Terri’s best interest is to be allowed to die in peace. Hasn’t fifteen years of limbo entitled her to her freedom?

Any time I’m feeling ill enough that I try to grab some z-time on the dirty, nasty floor of the pizza shop’s backroom, you know I should’ve just called out.

Saturday started out fine. I mean, I woke up with a sore throat, but I wasn’t feeling nauseous or anything. Went down to Hampden, watched a movie, played with a couple of dogs and one huge and incredible friendly cat who bit me twice — I was assured that the cat bit people when very pleasured by belly rubs, so I chose to take it as a compliment (even though ze kitty looked embarassed with herself and ran off both times).

At about four, left for home. I was going to shower and change and head into work, but I started feeling under the weather, so I took a ten minute nap instead. Clearly, that didn’t help, as I literally spent close to two hours snoozing on the store’s floor.

Thankfully, it was not a busy night, although I did wind up having to take a handful of runs between seven and eight (and made $20, so while I was completely miserable, it worked out well, I thought). I returned to the store, managed to do the night dishes, then promptly went to sleep again — this time, I did it proper: in Gary’s office, seated in his old ratty chair, with my head lying on my arms across his desk.

Shortly thereafter, as Gary stood in the office door — smoking & drinking and lecturing me on when to call out sick — I felt something in my stomach, brushed past him, stuck my head in the left-most sink and dry-heaved a good half-dozen times. (I felt embarassed, because with all of the hacking and coughing, I felt I should’ve really had a good vomit. Robin was all, “Look at you! All build up and nothing to show for it.”)

Of course, immediately afterwards I felt better - not a lot better, but a little better. Gary took my money, and I left, swinging by my part-time job for my check before heading home.

Instantly upon hitting my apartment (not literally), I scooped Guy up from the couch, turned on the heat, and dove into bed, cradling the poor cat like a schoolgirl would a stuffed bear (he, uh, registered his displeasure). I remember looking at my clock radio at about 9:10, then drifting off into a strange dream where machines that acted like plants and smelled like coffee and cigarettes sapped the remaining sickness from my physical being. I woke up about twenty minutes ago feeling awake, energetic, and considerably better than I had a few hours before. (Of course, I still have the sore through, but she made me a couple of glasses of tea, and the throat hurts much less than before).

Before writing this post, I started the dishwasher cycle, and now I’m going to pack my bags - I’m off for Scranton for the night, to make my “holiday appearance” to the fam. And I’m going to jump back in bed, because it is warm and cozy.