It was only four times yesterday I thought to myself that I needed to call and check on Mom.
That’s down from five times last Monday.
It’s been a month. Holy shit.
I can’t bring myself to even open the big pouch from the funeral home. It has all the acknowledgement cards, the guest book, and all that shit I need to send thank yous to the people who came or sent flowers, or baked pound cake (which I may, or may not, have eaten every last morsel of).
For now, it sits on the floor of my room…my she-cave…the one room in my house filled with just me stuff. It’s judging me for being so damned intimidated by a friggin’ leather pouch, and probably fake leather at that, isn’t it?
This will get easier, right?
Hi kids! Last Monday I was feeling kinda poorly, and then I was feeling like a truck had run over me and the truck was hauling a trailer, and the trailer had a tractor on it, and the tractor was pulling another trailer, and that trailer was full of manure.
No, wait…maybe I didn’t feel that good.
It was a semi that ran over me. A flat bed semi, hauling the space shuttle, pulling the truck/trailer/tractor combo.
Yeah, that’s closer to how I felt by noon last Monday.
The rest of the week is a blur. A horrible, cough-wracked, chest hurts, wheezy, feverish blur.
Team Pneumonia was kicking my ass, until the Big A (for amoxicillin) came to my rescue. It was a close one, but in the end my defense proved too tough.
And, I lost ten pounds, so victory?
Between aging parents and sparring siblings <<< hey, cool name for a band right?….
When that happens I reach in the grab bag to dig out a post of a different sort, and hope for brighter days and fuller buckits……
Let’s just hope this sign is right. I’d hate to miss my exit.