Time to shift (from the shit)

We survived our first full day with no family in our midst mostly intact. The hubby had a down day with his frustration level at an all time high. To make the shift from life in full gear to a life spent alternating between the pot and the couch. Well. Not so easy. And really, does anyone truly want to spend that much time thinking about shit?

I teared up at preschool when the owner told me her breast cancer story. She was only Stage II (large tumor, but no spread) and her life was completely catapulted into the stratosphere. It was another one of those talks that left me deep in thought. I told her how tired I am. How sick and tired of it all. And then how I feel like a complete ass for feeling that way. And she told me the whole caregiver shpiel. How it’s one big ole fat energy-sucking-whore of a role. (And her kids were in high school during hers.) But I still think I’m walking around with my asshole on my forehead for complaining one single solitary ounce. So she mentioned the cancer support groups. But warned of how she’d had mixed results. Because everyone kept dying and it freaked her out. Uh. Yea.

So I spent the day juggling a massive work catch up with my other favorite past-time: WATCHING THE HUBBY. I also decided to try a different tact with him. Start egging him on a bit. Like, “Don’t you think it’s time to get up off your butt and DO SOMETHING?” He laughed. I laughed. It felt almost normal. I even goaded him into sorting through the tupperware overload we’ve accumulated so we can see our way clear into the cabinet. I watched him actually soar a bit. Tackling the tupperware with a vengeance then moving on to girl bathing and CSA veggie split delivery to the Rock-es. I even got a report back that he was smiling. So there.

But as I took to my nightly ritual of post-girl-bed-time-glass-of-wine-on-the-porch —ALONE, it became painfully clear. The moments of the former normal are fewer and further in between. He said, “Can we talk through the door while I lie on the couch?” (He just didn’t have the energy to sit up in the rocking chair after all that tupperware stress.)

My eyes filled with tears of mourning for the loss of a beloved ritual. I stared up at the pink clouds of sunset. Took a deep breath. Then shrugged it off. Stood up. And went inside. So we could talk face to face. Time to shift and be thankful for what IS. And I know in my heart that the porch will come back to us. Very. Soon.

For now, it’s on to sorting through the remnants of my beloved Mima’s life that await me in the garage. Six or so boxes of memories that now need to be enmeshed into my future and life as it is. I’m scared of them because each time I’ve opened one, they smell like her. And my heart aches from the missing. She would’ve been my rock during this. She would’ve known just what to say. And I think she’s trying to show me that I can be my own rock. And make it on my own. That’s so like her.

But I think I’ll wait and do that tomorrow. Or never. I just had her piano tuned and sat down to play the other night. That flood of memories of playing that piano in her living room, sitting beside Papa while he showed me the keys for chopsticks. And how thrilled they were with my holiday time performance of Joy to the World. (All self-taught by ear, I might add.) It’s there in my living room as a daily reminder now. The dining chairs are off being re-glued and restored too. And soon enough they’ll be back with the table that we’ll all sit down to for dinner. Then the pink chair will soon be re-covered and will be where I’ll sit to share laughs with friends who’ve stopped by. Or where I’ll have that evening glass of wine while the hubby lays down to rest (while challenging that asshole, cancer, to a joust) on the couch. Instead of the front porch.

Cancer’s a grandmother-and-life-as-we-knew-it-stealing bitch.

But it’s all about the shift. Life deals ‘em out and it’s up to us to decide how to weather it all. (And where we decide to wear our asshole.)

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Kids. MGMT. Memories fade, like looking through a fogged mirror. Decision to decisions are made and not bought. But I thought, this wouldn't hurt a lot. I guess not.