The Vagaries Of Debilitation
Recriminations. "Why didn't you tell us, didn't she think it was something the whole family should know?"
"It all happened, pretty quickly, whirlwind like".
But y'know, this corner of the family was always quite secretive. I reckon in this house we could keep a death secret for a week.
Looks like no town after all. Visiting hours are in, and I'm back off, to see if those joint pains have cleared up. I'm not worried, like I say. They will have cleared up and if they haven't today, Wednesday will see a return to the rigmorole of normality quickedy split. I'm not cut out to care. I wasn't built to support her at this time.
But the fear still grips me. My grandmother died - worked herself to death for her children - at the age of 57. Young by half, and I tense up at the knowledge. Because I wasn't designed to cope. I wouldn't expect it, maybe simply because I can't manage it.
Fifty seven. A number you can count to. That gives me less than ten years to just not fail. That's all I can offer.
To everyone afflicted, over this definantly autumnal weekend, be it physical, mental or auto (we offer no judgement), my sincerest and scythe-slash deepest sympathies. I've been taking notes; I'm building a raft of optimism. Maybe we'll float.
"It all happened, pretty quickly, whirlwind like".
But y'know, this corner of the family was always quite secretive. I reckon in this house we could keep a death secret for a week.
Looks like no town after all. Visiting hours are in, and I'm back off, to see if those joint pains have cleared up. I'm not worried, like I say. They will have cleared up and if they haven't today, Wednesday will see a return to the rigmorole of normality quickedy split. I'm not cut out to care. I wasn't built to support her at this time.
But the fear still grips me. My grandmother died - worked herself to death for her children - at the age of 57. Young by half, and I tense up at the knowledge. Because I wasn't designed to cope. I wouldn't expect it, maybe simply because I can't manage it.
Fifty seven. A number you can count to. That gives me less than ten years to just not fail. That's all I can offer.
To everyone afflicted, over this definantly autumnal weekend, be it physical, mental or auto (we offer no judgement), my sincerest and scythe-slash deepest sympathies. I've been taking notes; I'm building a raft of optimism. Maybe we'll float.