Monday morning blues.

I cut myself some slack this morning. I didn’t iron my scrubs, I wore them nice and wrinkled without any shame. If my Mom were to see me, she would shake her head in disapproval. That was the law of her household when I was a kid: Go to school in perfectly pressed clothes, come home with straight As. I can report that I did well.

It’s ingrained in me, I iron all my clothes to this day, carefully and meticulously. It wasn’t until a few years ago that I learned that a lot of people simply throw what they’re wearing into the dryer and sooth out wrinkles that way. That doesn’t work for me. It’s just not enough, I can tell, and Mom would also be able to tell.

Today, though? I don’t care.

I received some bad news yesterday. Grandma Lupe – my last living grandparent, the one I have always been closest to, the one I have bonded with the most – was diagnosed with cancer. I don’t know the full details, because she’s being very secretive, but she’s in her 80s and, like my grandfather (her husband), will likely not seek any sort of treatment. I know what this means.

Do you understand why I don’t care about my stupid scrubs? I’m more concerned about breaking out in tears at any given moment. I am about to do so now sitting here waiting for this bus to leave.

I want more details. And I want to be with her.

I didn’t set any resolutions, goals, or intentions for this new year. I figured I was on a good roll last year and that I would simply keep doing what I was doing. I would maintain my focus on self-awareness, keeping those winter blues and depression at bay, controlling my thoughts. That’s it. Nothing grandiose, no deadlines, no milestones.

Now, she will be my focus. I know what I’ll be doing on my days off. If her prognosis is anything like Grandpa’s was, time is going to fly by.

Holy shit, I’m not ready.

My mind is trying to comfort me by telling me that I have been an exemplary granddaughter. I have always had a wonderful bond with her, I have visited so frequently, we have shared innumerable memories. I guess I should also take comfort in the fact that she’s a godly woman. It comforts me not because I believe she’ll just go to Heaven and meet Jesus and find my Grandpa. I’m atheist, I don’t believe any of that. But she very likely believes it, so she’ll be at peace. Right?

The bus is moving, I am crying, I have a few stops to get myself together. Maybe people will focus on my wrinkles and not notice the tears.

Does it even matter?