Foggy Days

I'm in a fog today. I spent last night writing up the story of Dad's progression through this nightmare. As usual, I couldn't manage it without some tears. But I got through it and emailed it to him. We posted it on Facebook and GoFundMe for anyone who wants all of the sordid details. In order to write such things, you're forced to relive them. And I wonder how long it will be before reliving them doesn't make me feel like the wounds are ripped open again. When the pain and loss won't feel so new, so fresh. Because you can't tell a story about Dad without telling one of Mom too.

I know it will be worse when I go back home, to my "normal" life. Part of me is dreading it. As much as I miss my husband, girls, cat and my bed - I know that when funny things happen I can't call and tell Mom all about it anymore. I can't call her for advice or for the recipe of dishes I know how to make but can't remember. I can't call her to vent my frustration or to just ask her how her day was. And that's when it's going to be really bad.

Here, now, there is still so much that needs done. There are the 45 minute drives to and from the hospital. There are bills to be paid and phone calls to make. There are statuses to update and meetings with doctors. There are errands to run for Dad and eleventy billion texts and messages to respond to. There is research to do and decisions to make. And in the thick of it, grief will send me staggering, but there's still something else to do to take my mind off of it. I can compartmentalize with the best of them.

So I found myself reading again yesterday and today. I was transfixed, as I usually am while reading. And I was blissfully caught up in someone else's tragedy. A fictional one, but one that dealt with real issues in our world. And when I finished the book, I was left with that feeling of losing a friend. The story was over. And my mind wasn't ready to be done yet. So now I'm trying to get my act together so I can get dressed and go down to see Dad. But I'm still in a fog. It's like searching through mist to find landmarks. And right now I'm just tired and emotional and missing my literary escape. I could read one of the other hundreds of books on my Kindle, but if I do, I know I will not get dressed and I will not leave the house today. Because the draw of the written word will pull me in and let me escape the cloudiness in my own head. So instead I'm creating more words.

I'm still putting off the packing for my weekend trip. I haven't put real clothes on. I haven't even brushed my hair. I need to do a few more things on my To Do list. I need to get into my car and leave. And I want to just lay down and read so I can be in someone else's head for awhile. I want to just wait until the fog lifts on it's own instead of forcing it away through action.