At midnight tonight, my mom, my brother P, and I held our rocks glasses full of cheap "champagne" aloft and said happy new year to each other. I'd contemplated toasts, but when it came down to it, I thought that the one day -- or hour -- at a time thing was probably for the best, so "happy new year" it was. The champagne was terrible, and my mother didn't touch it. She just smiled weakly, and rocked her chair back and forth.

My brother P came over tonight about 9 or so. He's a good ol' boy, a welder for nuclear power plants, and drinker of surprisingly decent beer. He brought over a 12-pack of Yuengling Black & Tan -- "It's cheap," he said, "and it ain't Bass and Guinness, but it's drinkable." He was right. We talked nonsense, shared silly internet links, and looked at each other worriedly as our mom vomited her dinner.

My brother J and his wife brought the dinner, cooked by J's MIL. It was supposed to be a sort of pot roast, but the meat was greasy and stringy -- full of clumps of fat and gristle -- and the potatoes and carrots were mealy and far too salty. I didn't touch the green peas, which looked vaguely yellowish. Being good Southerners (or good people or whatever), we complimented the food. My mom was relieved that they had left for their own home before she began to vomit.

Her lunch had stayed down. It was the grease and the fat and the stringiness that caused her dinner to come back. That, and the blood slowly leaking into her stomach, and the fluid pressing against all of her abdominal organs.

Her lunch was half a pimiento cheese sandwich that I prepared, and it lasted through an afternoon of far too much Stuff To Do. We had a 1pm meeting with her stockbroker to make sure that her stock is TOD (transfer on death), divided equally among my three brothers and me. That at least went quickly and easily.

We had a 1:15pm meeting with the social worker assigned by hospice. I was actually looking forward to that -- I was hoping there would be someone competent and caring, who would tell me what I should do next, and what I should expect, and how I should react. Until I opened the door to a young woman I recognized. "I met you at P's wedding rehearsal," she said. "I was the stand-in bride." Oh, right. She's young, she's inexperienced. She's very nice, but not particularly helpful to me. She did reiterate -- to me -- that nothing we say to her will be shared with anyone. She's ethical, and I think she's doing what she can. She's just not what I'd hoped for. I hope the nurse will be better.

But even though we'd expected her today, based on what the admission nurse had said, she never showed. Perhaps Wednesday, since tomorrow is a holiday. This is something of a problem, since that means another day where my mom is experiencing horrible indigestion that makes her vomit. This is another day where I'm not sure she's going to have enough nausea medication to last until the back-ordered supply gets here (not the nurse's fault, but the company's, and the fact that fed-ex doesn't deliver on holidays). And it's another day where I'm trying hard not to feel overwhelmed.

The nurse probably won't help that, though.

We had a short break after the social worker left. She made sure my mom had a support network, and asked if she was comfortable, and made sure we knew about the various services that hospice offers. It's pretty incredible, actually, and they do very good work. They can't give me what I really want though. Well, what I really want is a miracle that I know isn't possible, but if I can't have that, what I want is to know what role I'm playing. I want to know what's expected of me at every step. I want to know that I'll be able to be useful all the way. I want to be able to schedule and plan. Biology doesn't work that way, and neither does psychology.

I contemplated a nap, but then my mom reminded me that the lawyer was coming over to bring the will -- very quickly drawn up -- for her to sign. The lawyer is the daughter of the lawyer my grandfather had for most of his adult life. Mr. G is retired; his daughter had taken over his practice. She was surprised at how lucid my mom is. I think perhaps she was worried that my mom would be borderline competent, and that she would have to either make a grey ethical decision or deny my mom her will. Fortunately, my mom is very much herself. Her body fails, but her mind -- and her snark -- are very much intact.  It's been quite incredible that people have brought her documents to sign, that the notary will compare her signature to one on file so she doesn't have to leave the house, that the bank will allow my brother to bring home a form to add him to the account (with survivor benefits, so the money won't be frozen until her estate is settled, and we'll be able to pay final bills). This is the benefit of living in a small town where everyone knows each other from high school, or the neighborhood, or their kids' little league teams.

The lawyer came over and talked to my mom, and showed her the will -- it's very basic. Everything my mom owns is divided four ways. Fortunately, my brothers and I are close, and I pray that we stay that way. I do not want to fight over whether the piano counts as part of 1/4 of the physical property, or how much my grandmother's silverware is worth, and what that means. I worry about that sort of thing, and I think about it as I watch my mom retch into a trashcan, and I feel vulture-like. I feel dirty. And what I really want is to take her pain away and to make her whole again. Without pain, and without disease.

After the lawyer left, I took Rusti the Jack Russell terrier out to play ball, and P and his very pregnant wife arrived to visit. P lit a cigarette and watched as I threw the tennis balls with the ball-flinger. Rusti flew after the balls, returning with her ears back with the pure joy of a successful hunt.

The phone rang for the 300th time, but this time it was ana, who had landed safely in Boston. Every time I hear ana's voice, I'm reminded of what my real life is like, and a wave of intense homesickness washes over me.

The other calls included the hospital (making sure my mom got adequate follow-up care after leaving them), my mom's sister L, my grandfather's sister R (who wanted to talk to me about hat feathers from the 1930s she wants me to have -- which makes me quite happy), my brother K, the lawyer, the stockbroker, the bank, my brother J, the lawyer again, ana twice (yay), and someone trying to sell my mom an extended warranty on her gigantic SUV.

I'm tired of people. I should call my friend J and my friend B. I should write a thank-you note to my vet's office for their donation in Simon's honor to a veterinary-care-related charity.

I can't bear it, though. Most people -- my mom, ana, and a couple of friend excepted -- drain energy from me. I just want the people to go away, for just a little while. I can tell that my mom is feeling the same way. She didn't sleep today, and that probably added to her nausea tonight.

Patrick was a bit too drunk to drive home tonight, so my mom drove him. "No," he said. "I"m supposed to call Amanda."

"You don't need to get her up this time of night," my mom told him.

"Will you let me drive?" I asked. I'd had a few beers, but I was in no way impaired.

"No, I'm fine," my mom said.

She vomited in a cup as she drove. I begged her to let me drive her back, but she said again that she was fine. I made sure she had her bed turned down, and her blankets and her pillows, and I kissed her good night. And I felt guilty. She never should've left the house tonight, but my brother and me -- we're helpless when she says she's going to do something. Her strength of will is still there. It's not enough, but it's still there.

Tomorrow night, we're going out to celebrate my mom's birthday (which isn't until the 2nd, but two of my brothers have to return to work that day). She'll be 54.