In the last two weeks I have sobbed, hyperventilated and lost my fucking shit. I have felt like a toddler having a tantrum and a daughter transforming into a mother. I have cried everything out so I could go on again. I have asked for help and it has arrived like the cavalry.
In the last two weeks I have helped my father in the shower and held his hand while he’s sobbed. I’ve toured a facility he’s said he’d rather die than live in but that would be nice for other people. I’ve rubbed his back, combed his hair, and helped him pull a t-shirt over his head.
In the last two weeks I’ve decided one should marry a man solely on the basis of his willingness and ability to sort dozens of medications into daytime or nighttime cubes and/or repair medical recliners.
In the last two weeks I’ve put on masks and gowns and gloves. I’ve learned how to drain fluid from a lung and dispose of its contents. I’ve learned exactly how tenacious, how indefatigable, a woman determined to keep living her life can be.
I have not gone to yoga in the last two weeks but I have eaten sour patch kids and brownies in the same sitting. I’ve accepted gifts of coffee, chicken pot pie, beef stew, country style donuts, pound cake, BBQ, half the Presbyterian pantry, candles, bath salts, hookers, crack, heroin, blow, blow up air mattresses, and salad.
In the last two weeks I have shared a one bathroom house with a son, a husband, a father, two cats, a dog and a lizard. I have redefined personal space and sanity. I have canceled everything not absolutely essential to the immediate act of daily living. I have given and accepted help. I have felt like I was drowning and then resurfaced, awed by the exquisite and delicious taste of air.