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Photo by Garrett Jackson on Unsplash

Thoughts about our grandson.

For reasons I don’t want to go into here, my husband and I found out early in 2013 that we would have to take over the raising of our oldest grandson. There was no choice except to let him go into foster care. And with the shortage of foster homes in our area, we were assured he would probably end up in a group home.

You don’t know shit from shinola. Whatever that is.

With the story I filed this evening, I have written 241 pieces for Medium. This little ditty will be number 242. I have written 1,768 responses, and I have 62 unfinished drafts in my folder.

And my mood will be falling along with the leaves.

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No, it’s not. You don’t need publications to make your work successful.

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But it was anything but easy.

My sister and I agreed on a medical decision for our mom. She will get palliative care and there will be no more surgeries performed on her. The other choice was too ugly and involved surgical removal of one of her legs. We don’t think, in her right mind, she would want that. It would also be very risky for her and had only a chance of increasing her longevity, not a guarantee. To put her through it without even knowing if it would lengthen her life was too much.

How do I know what she would choose?

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And it was completely avoidable.

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We do best when we help others.

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

We have an opportunity to help one of our own.

Carol Burt

Former print journalist, former mayor, retired law enforcement officer. Writing about politics and government along with random personal essays.

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