Saturday, December 27, 2014
In times of fierce and unrelenting grief, I notice this:
Reading is too intense, requiring too much concentration. Toss.
Even an intelligent TV series like The Good Wife Season 3 requires more brain cells than I can fire up. I have to replay and replay and the threads evaporate as readily as they hove into view. I miss key information, I get frustrated. Toss.
A friend, through her father's lingering death played endless games of FreeCell on her laptop. This was a good thing.
People don't share what they do on a deathwatch. There I said it. Deathwatch. Horrible word.
And why not the distractions? You can only stare and cry and moan so much, right? Then there's knitting. I tried that. I get frustrated. That concentration thing. Toss.
And there's the telephone, the chatter seems meaningless but then what can people say? The odd few I reach out to are never home. And tripling my efforts to connect is more energy than I can summon. Hell, getting dressed is climbing Everest.
I find my family is immeasurably supportive and understanding. Bricks. We don't realize this until we're going through hell. They support me through my missing daughter, through health issues and other miseries. They say the right things like "take care of you, don't forget."
So I fire up FreeCell and get intense about that. And Mah-jongg.
And yesterday I show up to this Boxing Day bash and to my surprise I stayed and had those wonderfully distracting conversations with authors and artists and doctors and others who knew nothing of my deep pain. And that was a good thing until I got home and I felt guilty for forgetting even briefly, like I was on a short vacation.
And innocuous stupid news services on line that normally insult my intelligence I now find gripping.
And I wonder where elusive and lovely Normal is.