Medical tests all morning. This time it's Michael's turn. Lately it seems like this is all we do. Surely there must be something else for old people to do than visit doctor's offices and hospitals. Surely.
My therapist had a suggestion. She suggested that maybe a support group - like 'Compassionate Friends' might be helpful. I'm not sure I'm ready (or if I'll ever be). There is some interesting information on their website - affirming. I found "me" on this page several times: For the newly bereaved. In the end, though, isn't that all just a big "so what"?
It turns out the brain fog is pretty normal - not that it would disappear if I called it ... 'un-normal'. I don't think the Fog is afraid of being called... Brain Fog... or Sieve Brain... or Haze Head. It has settled in quite comfortably.
I look around my house today and wonder... "Who will care about any of this stuff when I'm gone? Will all of my meaningless (to anyone else) treasures just get thrown in a dumpster (big cleanse) or in the trash (selective cleanse)?
There's JoJo, the cast iron Boston Bulldog that has been all over my house. JoJo belonged to my Great Grandfather - enough reason to love him and pass him forward. That dog is old! Greg claimed JoJo, but Greg is gone.
There's an end table in the basement that was the first piece of furniture my husband and I bought. It was a very big deal for us. I haven't been able to get rid of it for all these years (obviously). Greg wanted to upcycle it (Flea Market Flip again). He loves the stories as much as I do. Loved - sorry - loved.
Somewhere in my house is a framed needlepoint "something" that I made in 1976 for the bi-centennial (1776-1976). It took me months. Will anyone want it or is it dumpster debris? How about the crosstitch butterfly? It's cute - really. And little.
I treasure a needlepoint Christmas card that my mother made for her mother (and I didn't even like my mother). What I wouldn't give for some of the things that either of my grandmothers made.
Greg was as sentimental as I am. He loved the stories - LOVED the stories - to hear about the people - where things came from - what they meant. Greg and I created our own stories with some of the incredible (and delightfully not so incredible) things me gave me.
Will the stories die with me?
I miss my beautiful friend.
My therapist had a suggestion. She suggested that maybe a support group - like 'Compassionate Friends' might be helpful. I'm not sure I'm ready (or if I'll ever be). There is some interesting information on their website - affirming. I found "me" on this page several times: For the newly bereaved. In the end, though, isn't that all just a big "so what"?
It turns out the brain fog is pretty normal - not that it would disappear if I called it ... 'un-normal'. I don't think the Fog is afraid of being called... Brain Fog... or Sieve Brain... or Haze Head. It has settled in quite comfortably.
I look around my house today and wonder... "Who will care about any of this stuff when I'm gone? Will all of my meaningless (to anyone else) treasures just get thrown in a dumpster (big cleanse) or in the trash (selective cleanse)?
There's JoJo, the cast iron Boston Bulldog that has been all over my house. JoJo belonged to my Great Grandfather - enough reason to love him and pass him forward. That dog is old! Greg claimed JoJo, but Greg is gone.
There's an end table in the basement that was the first piece of furniture my husband and I bought. It was a very big deal for us. I haven't been able to get rid of it for all these years (obviously). Greg wanted to upcycle it (Flea Market Flip again). He loves the stories as much as I do. Loved - sorry - loved.
Somewhere in my house is a framed needlepoint "something" that I made in 1976 for the bi-centennial (1776-1976). It took me months. Will anyone want it or is it dumpster debris? How about the crosstitch butterfly? It's cute - really. And little.
I treasure a needlepoint Christmas card that my mother made for her mother (and I didn't even like my mother). What I wouldn't give for some of the things that either of my grandmothers made.
Greg was as sentimental as I am. He loved the stories - LOVED the stories - to hear about the people - where things came from - what they meant. Greg and I created our own stories with some of the incredible (and delightfully not so incredible) things me gave me.
Will the stories die with me?
I miss my beautiful friend.
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