I thought I was pretty good this morning. I woke up - didn't feel like staying in bed to avoid the day. I could feel my fingers and toes - my breathing was even - no horrific images in my head - no sobbing when I put my feet on the floor to start the day. It was going to be a good day.
I took a bath - my usual routine. I've done the same thing every morning for as long as I can remember - at least since I was married in 1970 - in the same order - muscle memory takes over - I don't even have to think about it.
This morning, after my bath, I arrived at my makeup table (known fondly as the "hair" table, since that's where I dry my hair). I picked up a brush to brush through my wet hair. It hurt. Tangles. Tangles? When I tried to run my hand through my hair I realized that I had not used conditioner. Never once in 51 years have I forgotten to use conditioner in my hair. That was a clue to what was coming, but I missed it. Not having the energy to try to remedy the conditioner thing (another clue?), I decided to just dry my hair and deal with the static. I could always smush it down with hairspray.
I left the bedroom wondering if denial and acceptance felt close to the same - and which one I was currently feeling.
Our cleaning people called and said they were running ahead of schedule, could they come at 9:30am instead of 11:30am. Whatever. Why not. Get it over with. (Since lupus came to visit and brought it's good friend Fibrosis of the lungs, cleaning is no longer on my list of things I can do)
Did I mention that I'm on oxygen 24/7? One end of my 50' oxygen tube is hooked to an oxygen concentrator (reminiscent of Star War's R2 D2, Richard named it R2 O2 - clever boy). The other end is attached to my face. I'm not willing to trust "outsiders" to be fleet of foot and competent oxygen-tube-jumpers, and not yank my head when they trip over the tubing. When the cleaners here, I usually go to the yellow room (a bedroom I'm trying desperately to "unjunk") and hook up to portable oxygen for the hour or hour and a half they're here. So, I did.
I picked up the Surface to write - and did some banking instead. Closed up the laptop - started sorting through anything that was within reach of where I was sitting. Stopped sorting - picked up the laptop. Hesitated - back to the box I was sorting - nothing felt like the "right" thing to do. Maybe I'll call Sally and see if she's interested in going out to lunch. (still missing the clues)
"What do I feel like doing", I asked myself.
:::: long silent pause ::::
"Nothing." I feel like doing... nothing.
Michael comes to tell me that the cleaners are gone and I can come out of hiding.
I gather up my "stuff" (glasses, water, pulse oximeter, oxygen tubing) and head down the hall. When I pass what was Greg's room when he stayed here, I notice that they put the damn burgundy quilt on the bed. I do NOT want the burgundy quilt on the bed. Greg destroyed the muslin quilt that was there, so I bought the burgundy quilt for him. I don't want to see the burgundy quilt - or the pillow cases. I don't know if I'm more sad or more angry.
I ripped off the quilt - pulling wildly - throwing it in a heap on the floor - out of breath - weary from the effort. I don't need to move it. Michael will get it for me - and the pillow cases. I know he will.
Michael appears at the door, seeing what I've just done.
"Do you want me to get rid of them," Michael asks, concerned about me.
"No. Not yet. I can't get rid of them yet, but I don't want to see them. I don't know. I don't know what I want."
Michael tells me he will take the quilt and pillow cases to the basement and wash them. I don't have to make that decision. Not today.
I make my way to the kitchen and sit at the table, catching my breath, looking at the windowsill, cluttered with vases, and pottery - salt and pepper shakers - a bottle - a plastic Santa Claus - and other miscellaneous things. I feel the fire start to rising from deep inside and I can't stop it. Just as I'm ready to get up - take most of what's on the windowsill and throw it against the wall and smash it into a million pieces, Michael enters the room and sees my face.
"What can I do", he asks kindly, knowing that a storm is about to break.
"Please get those things off the windowsill", I ask, too quietly. "except for the milk bottle (an antique 1940's bottle that Greg found for me) and the plastic Santa (I'll tell you about Santa another day can't today) . I don't care where you put the rest. I don't care if you throw them out. I don't care."
Michael puts his arms around me and I collapse in tears.
An hour later and I'm here, writing out the pain - writing out the anger.
And now I realize - maybe I'm not having such a great day after all (I'm slow). I will be wiser tomorrow. I'll watch for the clues.
My question of earlier is answered. Denial or acceptance? Denial. 100% denial. I'm not ready to accept one thing about this.
I hate it
I took a bath - my usual routine. I've done the same thing every morning for as long as I can remember - at least since I was married in 1970 - in the same order - muscle memory takes over - I don't even have to think about it.
This morning, after my bath, I arrived at my makeup table (known fondly as the "hair" table, since that's where I dry my hair). I picked up a brush to brush through my wet hair. It hurt. Tangles. Tangles? When I tried to run my hand through my hair I realized that I had not used conditioner. Never once in 51 years have I forgotten to use conditioner in my hair. That was a clue to what was coming, but I missed it. Not having the energy to try to remedy the conditioner thing (another clue?), I decided to just dry my hair and deal with the static. I could always smush it down with hairspray.
I left the bedroom wondering if denial and acceptance felt close to the same - and which one I was currently feeling.
Our cleaning people called and said they were running ahead of schedule, could they come at 9:30am instead of 11:30am. Whatever. Why not. Get it over with. (Since lupus came to visit and brought it's good friend Fibrosis of the lungs, cleaning is no longer on my list of things I can do)
Did I mention that I'm on oxygen 24/7? One end of my 50' oxygen tube is hooked to an oxygen concentrator (reminiscent of Star War's R2 D2, Richard named it R2 O2 - clever boy). The other end is attached to my face. I'm not willing to trust "outsiders" to be fleet of foot and competent oxygen-tube-jumpers, and not yank my head when they trip over the tubing. When the cleaners here, I usually go to the yellow room (a bedroom I'm trying desperately to "unjunk") and hook up to portable oxygen for the hour or hour and a half they're here. So, I did.
I picked up the Surface to write - and did some banking instead. Closed up the laptop - started sorting through anything that was within reach of where I was sitting. Stopped sorting - picked up the laptop. Hesitated - back to the box I was sorting - nothing felt like the "right" thing to do. Maybe I'll call Sally and see if she's interested in going out to lunch. (still missing the clues)
"What do I feel like doing", I asked myself.
:::: long silent pause ::::
"Nothing." I feel like doing... nothing.
Michael comes to tell me that the cleaners are gone and I can come out of hiding.
I gather up my "stuff" (glasses, water, pulse oximeter, oxygen tubing) and head down the hall. When I pass what was Greg's room when he stayed here, I notice that they put the damn burgundy quilt on the bed. I do NOT want the burgundy quilt on the bed. Greg destroyed the muslin quilt that was there, so I bought the burgundy quilt for him. I don't want to see the burgundy quilt - or the pillow cases. I don't know if I'm more sad or more angry.
I ripped off the quilt - pulling wildly - throwing it in a heap on the floor - out of breath - weary from the effort. I don't need to move it. Michael will get it for me - and the pillow cases. I know he will.
Michael appears at the door, seeing what I've just done.
"Do you want me to get rid of them," Michael asks, concerned about me.
"No. Not yet. I can't get rid of them yet, but I don't want to see them. I don't know. I don't know what I want."
Michael tells me he will take the quilt and pillow cases to the basement and wash them. I don't have to make that decision. Not today.
I make my way to the kitchen and sit at the table, catching my breath, looking at the windowsill, cluttered with vases, and pottery - salt and pepper shakers - a bottle - a plastic Santa Claus - and other miscellaneous things. I feel the fire start to rising from deep inside and I can't stop it. Just as I'm ready to get up - take most of what's on the windowsill and throw it against the wall and smash it into a million pieces, Michael enters the room and sees my face.
"What can I do", he asks kindly, knowing that a storm is about to break.
"Please get those things off the windowsill", I ask, too quietly. "except for the milk bottle (an antique 1940's bottle that Greg found for me) and the plastic Santa (I'll tell you about Santa another day can't today) . I don't care where you put the rest. I don't care if you throw them out. I don't care."
Michael puts his arms around me and I collapse in tears.
An hour later and I'm here, writing out the pain - writing out the anger.
And now I realize - maybe I'm not having such a great day after all (I'm slow). I will be wiser tomorrow. I'll watch for the clues.
My question of earlier is answered. Denial or acceptance? Denial. 100% denial. I'm not ready to accept one thing about this.
I hate it
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