Tuesday, November 27, 1984

I went to the interview and start the job tomorrow night. It's eleven hours, from 8PM to 7AM, and pays $10 cash. It's three blocks from my house, and if I drive there, my car will be sheltered in a car port. Maybe I won't have to scrape windows and put plastic on them this winter.

The lady's name is Marie, she's seventy-three years old, smokes, drinks Pepsi, is hard of hearing, walks with a cane, has no teeth and has an oxygen insufficiency to the heart. She is also quite the jokester.

Larry and I took Alma to see a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist convinced Larry to put Alma in the hospital immediately. In the waiting room, Alma threatened to kill herself "and I'll do it right", if Larry didn't take her home immediately. By the time the psychiatrist saw her, she was at her very worst mentally, totally disoriented, incomprehendable and extremely hyperactive. While the psychiatrist was trying to do the interview with Larry, Alma was riffling thought all the papers on the doctor's desk. The admission process, because she's unable to sign her own name, took many hours. She had to be signed into the hospital on an emergency basis.

Larry stopped at one of their daughters on the way home, and by the time we got back home and I fixed dinner for Larry, it was 5:45PM.