I had a horrible day. I must pack to move and I, being the procrastinator that I am, decided not to procrastinate this time. So this morning I took my husband to work and went to the new house to shoot a roll of pictures and locked myself out of the house. I had to get my son's tiny girlfriend to crawl through the doggie door. Great. Now she knows how to get in. I don't know her very well yet. Uncomfortable.   I have two ear infections that are making me crazy. I feel like I have bugs in my ears and I cannot hear. This is day 3 of the antibiotics and so far no relief in sight.   So I finally get home to pack, all hot and Phoenix in August stinky and I tackle my bookshelf. I got one box about half full and picked up some plain white writing paper. I almost threw it away but at the last minute decided I should find out what it was. It was the writing that Jeff did to communicate when he was intubated after his transplant. I had some kind of nervous breakdown. I lost it. Both of my boys were home and they helped me through it. We ended up reading all of the pages.  We even laughed some. It turned out all right but you all know what it takes out of you.   I'll write more on the subject of the papers when this is not quite so fresh. Jeff was a writer. We have stories that he wrote by hand from 2nd grade on to 25 years. Hand written. I watched Jeff write these papers from the hospital. I know that he wrote them but I'm telling you now that this is not my son's handwriting. Very creepy. Just how much of us lives in our hearts? I know that when I think of me, where I am, I am in my chest.   So then I decided to stop packing and go to visit my dad. Sometimes a girl just needs her daddy. I finished closing up the box and moved it 2 feet from the bed to a chair right next to the bed and screwed my back up. I'm going to bed early tonight to hg my new heating pad and read. Hardto get hurt that way.