I spent forty-five dollars on an Uber just to get across the city in the rain because the L was stalled again and I’m sitting there in this sterile room that smells like industrial lavender and old skin and I just want to SCREAM. My grandmother is going on about her edema and the way the nurses didn’t bring her water on time and I’m nodding like a good grandson but my skin is literally crawling because I have a million things to do and I’m paying two thousand a month for a studio apartment I barely see (plus student loans that are basically a second mortgage at this point) and here I am losing three hours of my life to a story I’ve heard fourteen times before. She looks so small in that bed and I know I should feel something besides this white-hot resentment but I don't and that makes me hate myself even more which just feeds back into the anger. She keeps showing me her bruised forearms from the blood draws and describing the consistency of her lunch and I’m thinking about the fact that I haven't even had a real meal today because I was grinding through spreadsheets until 7 PM just to make this visit.