We watched "The Whale" earlier this week. I wanted to watch it even before the best actor win. I have no comparison (because I have seen none of the other nominees), so I don't know whether the award was deserved, but it was a good performance in a difficult role. The movie, though, was so dark and disturbing. There was some Hollywood typical POV (anti-religion) and some aspects that were totally ridiculous (to name just two, no way could someone that fat stand in a bathtub to shower; the daughter was a bully, and was not made into a good person by a four day relationship with dad).

Earlier this week I got a survey from hospice. It wasn't about their services during the end of my father's life, but about the communication I've received since then. Apparently, after 13 months, they are "done." It is 14 months today since my father died. I struggle although I do what I have to do everyday. I filled out the survey and mailed it. I did not give them a very positive rating. Everyone raves about hospice, so maybe my expectations were too high, but I was underwhelmed, and told them it was not worth the 6 or 8K Medicare pays for the service. The letters they sent just upset me. They were generic. "Random loved one" language was offensive. There should have been electronic methods for communication, especially for the survey. Even the survey was folded in a screwed up way that would not fit in the return envelope. The volunteer who opens my response will probably cry.

 Granted, it's vulgar and ill-advised (it got her fired), but every day there is a new story that makes it more and more apt. Any time I feel blue about issues related to my job, I comfort myself by saying, "at least I'm not in Florida."

Later: Bingo. On occasion, I feel embarrassed to be associated with the place. Well, at least I'm not in Florida.

 I intended to post yesterday and note two things, but this is a busy week and time evaporated. First, yesterday was the fifth anniversary of Uncle Bud's death. How can that be? Next, it was the 21st anniversary of the founding of Gully Brook Press.

Last night I had another dream with my father in it. He was driving. My mother was in the passenger's seat. I was in the back seat. He was talking and looked to be about 80-85. At first we were driving on a road that traveled through a corn field, and then we were on 28A in West Shokan. We were late for dinner, and my father was quite annoyed by this. He narrowly avoided a head on collision, which did not disturb him at all, but really upset my mother. I was going through a roll of money, pulling out bills to make the ticket price ($15 each).