|Posted by Cathy Douglas on December 1, 2010 at 10:47 AM|
It's not like me to be depressed, but I'm acting like it--not doing the things I usually do, not doing much of anything, and not missing any of it. I'm taking a leave of absence from work, not doing any writing, not submitting any writing, only getting out of the house long enough for one short chore or jog every day. No interest in music or nature or cooking, or much of anything, really. Yeah, I take care of Dan. But he sleeps most of the time, and isn't ever very demanding.
There's beaurocratizing. Today I ran our application for a disabled sticker down to the post office. First snow of the year, just enough to disguise a very slick bit of ice (ow my head!). I've got all sorts of forms and documents to read and look into, but they've waited this long and can wait some more. I thought I would want to draw, but I can't seem to pick up a pen. I'm caught up on the work for the store I can do from home. I've got home repairs to do, but everything left is noisy and Dan is sleeping. I could bake a cake, but I don't know if anyone wants another one; I'm certainly not going to eat it. I started to get sick, but my body lost interest in the germs before they ever took hold. Which leaves nothing to do but piddle around the house, reading and cleaning, until the Hospice nurse and social worker show up.
I especially don't feel like writing. I'm one revision short of finishing my poetry course. Before I took off from Writing.com, I put all the stories and poems I'm working on into word processing, to edit and/or send out. Some of them don't need anything but a hook shot off to another venue. I just can't get into it.
In a lot of ways, looking after a dying person is like having a baby. And you know what? One day when my kids were teens, both old enough to do a lot of things for themselves, I took a look at myself and noticed that I was still there. Under the layers of Mom, there was still a me. Crazy chick: refuses to drive or dye the gray out of her hair, has no idea what the headlines are or whether she's got money in the bank, paints her kitchen purple, has houseplants crowded in every available spot, insists she's a pagan but won't join any pagan groups, spends her time wandering around in the woods and writing poetry and doofy stories. . . Yeah, I suppose she'll be around again. One of these days.