There’s no point pretending it’s not happening. No point in sticking my head in the sand or hiding behind a nice big woolly mum. It is happening, it is real; Beloved is ill, both mentally and physically. It no longer matters who or what caused it, if last year’s medications tipped him over the edge we must accept it. Playing the Blame Game won’t make a blind bit of difference.
We are once again waiting for an assessment of his state of health and therefore in limbo. I have a permanent headache, feel flat, depressed and obsessed with the situation. It’s like standing at a carousel in the Arrivals Hall at the airport, helplessly watching a big suitcase full of demons going round and round and round and nobody claims it for their own, least of all me.
What on earth can I blog about? Perhaps I could start a new blog: 'The Road To Oblivion’. Or I could list the outings we undertake, singly or jointly, like meals with friends or in the pub, shopping trips; there have been some rare family visits, one where the visitors actually made a difference by clearing some long neglected jobs; there’ve been long or short walks with Millie, depending on the weather. Also depending on weather have been stints in the garden. Nothing has brought any lasting relief, that merry-go-round in my head is merciless.
So deep is this misery that I don’t want anyone to try and coax me out of it. When I told a friend how flat I feel she said that coming out with them to see a movie would be good for me, that I always seem to rally when circumstances demand it. I know all about brave faces and accepting their invitation might have been a good idea but afterwards I still have to go home and climb into my screeching head again.
I’ll come back here when the load lightens, or when we’ve had the assessment. In the meantime forgive me for wallowing in misery.
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