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My Georgia grandmother is still here in the hospital down the street. I genuinely love visiting her and trying to make her hospital stay tolerable, but at the same time I think I’m getting a bit of a Florence Nightingale syndrome. I find myself telling people, “I’m sorry I can’t come to your party. I was up early bringing quiche Lorraine and piping hot coffee to my grandmother who is in the hospital. You understand why I’m exhausted.” As we were waiting for the elevator at Scott Stadium this afternoon, I said to everyone within earshot, “I’ve been riding the elevator a lot lately, going up to the fifth floor and back, visiting my sick grandmother in the hospital.” I am discovering there is a certain selfish allure to being a caretaker. How can I top the martyrdom tomorrow? Can I smuggle a kitten into the hospital to replace my grandmother’s beloved stray cats that she feeds in Georgia and misses terribly? Can I organize a bridge team comprised of all my most entertaining friends and throw her a card party in her room? Can I befriend Venus Williams, who my grandmother feels a certain kinship with because they both have long legs? There’s gotta be something more. This whole ordeal makes me wish I was a doctor or a certified nurse. Then at least I could do more than just bring her fattening foods and make sure her blanket is tucked securely under her shoulders. Then at least I could maybe fix her for real instead of doing all this other showy, superficial stuff. We’ve been joking a lot about the elderly lady who was recently murdered by her daughter at an assisted living place in town. I believe her daughter smothered her with a pillow. For some reason this strikes us all as extremely funny right now. But I think my grandma is trying to stay jolly and entertaining for us just in case. “This is the best quiche I’ve ever eaten,” she says. “I appreciate everything you’re doing. Please don’t kill me.” “Oh grandma,” I say. “I could never do that. Taking care of you makes me feel so good about myself. And plus, you have cable TV and wireless internet in your hospital room, and I usually get to finish your chocolate pudding.”