Glitter is the herpes of craft supplies.

My grandfather died yesterday morning. He only had about six to eight months to live, due to a tumor in his esophagus, but he ended up in the hospital for something (I'm not exactly sure what), and he refused dialysis. It was a matter of hours, days, maybe a week at most.

I've canceled my gyno appointment for tomorrow, since I doubt I have the money to go to Jackson and back twice in one week. My schedule for the rest of the week looks something like this:

Today: Math exam at 5:00. Clean.
Tomorrow: Japanese exam at 2:45. Mom and Rob help me move at 4:30. Check out of the room at 6:00. Head to Treat Street to see the Whimsicality gang for the last time this school year.
Thursday: History exam at 10:15. Drive to Jackson sometime during the day to go to the visitation
Friday: Funeral. Not sure when.

Looks like I shouldn't have to miss anything, although I could plausibly ask the History teacher if I can take the exam later.

I'm not sure how to feel about this. On the one hand, I did love my grandpa, and I have some good memories with him. The last time I really saw him, I took him out to Big Boy for breakfast as his Christmas present. He apparently raved to Dad about how smart I was, and what a lovely young lady I've turned into. (Aww, thanks!) And he's always been nice to me, even if we didn't agree on politics. (This is a man who, when I said that I would vote for Kerry if I was old enough because he was for at least gay civil unions, said, "Well, I wouldn't want a couple of fags living next door to my kids!" I was glad we were pulling up in front of the place he was dropping me off at, or I might have gotten... angry.) He's always welcomed us into his home and treated us well.

But for all that, I've never really been all that close to him. Right now I don't feel anything stronger than a mild sadness that equates to "That's too bad. He was a good man, and I'll miss him." It's not so much that I don't care; I think I just didn't have that kind of relationship with him where I feel much about his death.

And that presents another problem altogether: do I pretend to cry at the funeral, or not cry and pretend to be stoic, or hope that I'll get caught up in the funereal atmosphere and bawl my eyes out without meaning to, like I did at my grandmother's funeral? This is only the second funeral I've been to, and the last was about six years ago. I have no idea how I'm supposed to act, or how long my dad's going to want me around. The last wake I was at, I told my youngest cousin about the Nazi death camps and probably gave her nightmares, because all I could really think about was death. (Well, that and the fact that around that age I had a somewhat unhealthy obsession with the Holocaust. I still do, to an extent, though I haven't been so active in it.) I'm thinking that's not a good idea this time around, but I really don't want to hang around my aunts and uncle and my dad and listen to them weep and wail. My mom, at least, expressed a desire to go, and hopefully she will; that way I'll have a little sanity to deal with.

I'm going to go back to cleaning and thinking about how I'm going to fit in time to go to Kole's to get a black blouse.