The story so far:
We arrived at Nana and Papa's appartment around 11:00 on Thanksgiving. No homebooked meals this year, instead we were having dinner catered by the local grocery store. While Papa and Dad left to pick up our food, I went with my mom to begin the daunting task of delivering Nana to our dinner table.
The nursing home she was recouperating at was less than a block away; just up the hill. Everyone said how lucky it was, now Papa could go see her several times a day. I feel differently. I feel that it's tragic, that two people should be so close, yet so far away. They're less than 100 yards apart, but that distance is an eternity.
It took a little convincing her, but eventually Nana was hoisted into a wheel chair, and we were able to peddle her down the hill to the appartment, after making her nice and snug against the cold November breeze.
Dinner was fine, and I suppose I should say I'm thankful that we could all be together for this holiday, but I can't get rid of that nagging voice in the back of my mind that hates how we've all been forced to be thankful for something none of us would have wished for in the first place.