Temporary Yuck

I’ve procrastinated as much as possible this morning…putting off the time I dedicate to being still, hammering away at the keys as it often dredges up deep truths. Annoying, irritating, gritty truths.  I don’t have to count the days to know in my soul it’s that time of year…this time, three years ago, mom took a spiral decline and hours spent bedside simply were not enough. I know it’s that time…I don’t want to admit it, I don’t want to talk about it, I don’t want to think about it.  Keeping my schedule tightly packed, mind full of distracting thoughts, busy little brain…but still it pulls, rises, tugs and plucks, needing to be acknowledged. I don’t want to identify with sadness…a thousand other daughters have lost their mothers.  My head is satisfied with her loss…she suffered, fought, and I know exactly where she is and that I’ll see her again.  That should bring me enough peace.  I’m neither happy, sad, or mad, but still those emotions rise. I’m flat, un-bubbly, care-less. I prefer bubbly, approachable, chatty, smiley…just not feeling it today.  Or yesterday.  There’s so much to do this time of year, so much cheerful possibility…I’m angry at the process…the temporary yuck.  

Procrastinating

Less of an over-thinker more of a procrastinator, I become paralyzed by possibilities. A wonderful concept settles in, then compounded by many others, it becomes shelved and nothing at all gets accomplished.  A basket of quick bites to family members counting breaths with their hospice bound mother…coulda shoulda, but just not executing. Meanwhile, the brainless tasks of dishes and laundry are quickly completed. The easy stuff accomplished, while the meaningful stuff goes undone. All heart heavy, scary stuff…the kinda stuff that makes eyes leaky, leaves one looking weak and wordless.

It’s that time of year. Three years ago, I was blessed to sit for 13 days counting my own mother’s breath.  For seemingly no reason, long quiet stares and fatigue are becoming common lately.  Longing either for the coziness of my pillow or a mind-numbing lengthy list of distracting to-dos.  Meanwhile, the gift of history, experience, goes unused.  It’s hard, it’s yucky, it’s not pretty and will likely produce an ugly cry, but it’s what I’ve been trained for. I’ve navigated the rough terrain, I’ve slept in the uncomfortable recliners, I’ve eaten the tasteless cafeteria food, I’ve discerned the glances of doctors. What good is the experience if you can’t use it to help another?  So slowly, I pull one leg, then another followed forward by my heavy heart toward the store…I’m off to fill a basket and stop procrastinating.