Dear Dairy,

Gwen's obit appeared in Tuesday's paper. They put a flag under her picture because she was a veteran. And they said "she served her country with distinction," which I really liked.

Wednesday is the Gwen Celebration for the neighborhood. I was happy to find two of my father's caregivers whom we got to know well. In fact, one of them told me it was a recommendation from Gwen that got her a new and better job after my father passed. The other caregiver is rather timid and was bulled constantly by my father's nurse. The nurse was an ass. A major ass. She had a police record and attacked a cop. But:

1. When the nurse bullied the woman in my presence, I told her very seriously that I would rip her rotten head off if it happened again. Geez, did she go pale in a hurry.

2. The nurse kept a notebook full of everything that went on in the house. My sons got a hold of it, drew a picture, and wrote underneath, "We just drew a picture of a pirate in your f@cking notebook and there's not a thing you can do about it."

3. When the nurse showed up (in a pink tracksuit) at my father's house while it was still burning, a sheriff's deputy asked me what I want to do. I said, "Throw her out of the neighborhood." Two deputies escorted her to her car and told her to stay at least five miles from my father's house. The next day, she posted a weird announcement in the newspaper about how much she missed my father. Get over it lady! My father couldn't stand you! He wanted a wild dingo to eat you!

I had no idea I had such clout! I wish Gwen had been there but she was helping some firefighters push my father's car out of the garage. It was already covered with wet plaster and looked like the world's biggest bird has taken a dump on it. When I did tell Gwen, she about busted a rib from laughing.

We've been cleaning out the refrigerator. So far, we have discovered 654 new life forms, many of which are mean and have teeth. My son had to Taser one of them to get it inside the garbage disposal.

I don't know where I am with grieving right now. I think the meds have built a wall where the horrible images of that night still pop up, but they don't hit me as hard. I can't take meds the rest of my life, so I'm hoping to learn how to grieve on my own. We'll see what Thursday night with what I call the Grief Group at the hospital. I'm worried it will be a room full of sobbing people. That I don't need.

Can't either of my sons interested in the Straight No Chaser concert at the Chicago Theater in December. The tickets are bought, so maybe I can find somebody up there who wants to go. I'm pretty sure I know a few writers up there. (I'm mentioning this because the tickets fell off my desk today. There ain't no way it's December, not around here.)