Ever since Thursday, when Dad was moved to a personal care home to continue rehabbing his broken neck, I've been too restless and tired to sit down and write. This restlessness, I know, is born out of my need to figure things out, to make sense of what I'm judging to be a difficult situation. Ditto for the tiredness.
let go let go let go let go let go let go let go let go
Love yourself, hon! Take care of yourself, Dad said.
That made me weep.
Dad is settling into his new surroundings.
"What's the alternative?" he said, "To be a whiner? Then they'll come and close my door and where will that get me?"
He was smiling, leaning back in his chair while I sorted through some of his bills. Michael was hooking up the television. Claire was rummaging through his welcome basket for a snack. The sun was out!
I'm a bowl full of shiny, gold-flecked fishy emotions. One minute, mouth gaping, watching all the old ladies with walkers; 3 Bettys in a row! next, brave and grown-up; shape-shifting by the minute.
This is why I haven't been writing much. Of course, it's these fishy times when writing is the best thing to do, even if you're gasping for air. Write anyway...
Neeny said, "You're not a mess. And you're not depressed. You're just alive. And so is your Dad. It's so good. Really."
