I am in my pajamas, in bed with the dogs, watching the finale of Grey's Anatomy. I can't believe this season will be over in one hour and thirty-three minutes. This isn't as hard as the finale of Deadwood was, but very, very close. Deadwood (also on Sunday, hmmm) was the one bright spot in a pitch black year. After the last episode, I actually considered taking antidepressants.
All these years, people--my mother and my therapists--have been urging me to do just that, and I've resisted. I made it through the horrors of childhood, a marriage Vincent Price could have starred in, the war of divorce, postpartum times four...all without medication (well, okay, there was some Xanax and Ativan along the way, not to mention the rivers of chardonnay), but I wasn't sure I could survive the end of Deadwood, especially without the promise of another season (Yes, one more is coming).
As I said before, I'm pretty sure this is not going to be as bad as that, but there's still an hour and twelve minutes before I'll know. For now, I just have to wonder if Denny will get the heart, if Burke will lose the use of his cuttin' hand, and if Meredith and McDreamy will finally make it back into each other's arms.