It had to happen eventually. I simply had to wait for the right moment, the right set of circumstances.

Until early Friday morning (like about 00:30 in the morning), I hadn't written anything of significance for too long. More importantly, I hadn't gotten any appreciable distance into a story for the Spring Anthology. Then it all came whooshing out and a story, a workable story inline within my proposal, started to filter out of the dismal depths of a very serious bout of depression.

No, I am not back to work. I'm still laid up with a bum wrist. I had an arthrogram and MRI on Wednesday, but don't get the results until next Wednesday. My wrist hurt worse afterwards, but that's to be expected.

My mother is in a nursing home. She has mild dementia. She thinks it's 1970 or 1972, depending on whether she thinks my dad is alive or dead. He died in 1971. She doesn't recognize my wife of 30 some years. She wants to go home, but has zero short term memory and can't be left alone. We can't afford in home care, so she gets to die at a nursing home.

(Sometimes being an only child is not such a good thing. I wish I had an older, or younger, brother or sister I could pawn off the critical decisions about mother's care. It's especially bad when you suddenly find out the cancer is much worse than you were told and she may have had a stroke, or a series of small strokes, which knocked her off the sanity wagon. Right now, the woman in the nursing home is my mother in body only. The personality I've known for nearly my whole life has gone away. Lingering death is not something to look forward to.)

And, then, the sun came up and I'm a little better. Actually, a whole lot better. Crazy better. Loopy better. Dangerously silly better. But, that's to be expected, too.

The story is coming along. I know almost exactly where it's going. There will almost certainly be a happy ending.