The dark of December

I wish I could tell you these days are easier; they're not. I wake up and wonder how today my brain will focus both on me living and my father dying. To consider them both at the same time is overwhelming, unbearable. But I feel like I need to find a way to do it.

When we visit my dad, I expend all my energy trying to etch his face onto my brain, as if it hasn't been there my whole life. He's lucid and we bring up nice family memories. There are some smiles and laughter.  And he eats whatever food we bring him, albeit a small amount. In some moments it almost seems like we're not going through what we're going through.

Then he is tired and wants to sleep. When we hug goodbye, I can feel his back bones. We leave, navigating through house clutter, the new additions of a wheelchair, shower seat, and walker.

When I come home from visiting, all I can do is sit in a foggy quiet. It doesn't seem like speaking or writing or watching anything would make any sense. There is that quiet, then a hum I can almost feel, a hollowing out to make more space for grief.

When I come home, I wonder about the headaches I sometimes get, if they're due to stress, not sleeping well, or maybe they're my body not tolerating the maintenance medication. Maybe it's worse and the cancer back already. My mind goes everywhere. I feel physically ok. But then I think, I felt okay before it all happened in March.

To go through these days is not to trust the ground I'm walking on. Not to trust the air. I make lists all day of what I'm thankful for, they are endless. To be honest, though, I'm scared and unsteady. I know that nothing is permanent, and yet I don't believe that any good news is coming. I do believe this is a distorted thought, but I'm inside out now, I'm on eggshells, I'm having a hard time finding my way.