Summer sucks the most for me.
It's not the heat, though I dislike the heat. It's not the wasps, though I break out into a cold sweat whenever I see one. It's not the allergies, though I suffer with not-so-quiet dignity. No, what I hate most about summer is the personal tragedies that seem to plague me.
I lost Spooky, Sam Samoyed, my Uncle Grey, my paternal grandfather and my dear friend Glenna, all during the consecutively falling summers of previous years.
This weekend past, my father had a stroke. It was a minor stroke, but enough so that his entire side from arm to leg went numb. It's a very scary time for my family right now, and more than ever I find myself blessed to have such an amazing group of people around me, whether they're virtual or are with me in the flesh.
My father's an asshole, and anyone who's known me any length of time will know how hard he and I clash, how often I'm reduced to a miserable, depressed wreck of a human after being picked on, bullied or just plain put down. But he's my father. I know he's scared. I've seen him up in the middle of the night, listening quietly to music and just sitting in his chair, thinking.
Outwardly, he's taking things in good stride. He's joking about his doctor visits and hamming it up about his diet changes. The blood pressure monitor device is being poked at with interest, and he's asking my questions about medical stuff. The news is slowly being broken to family members, and he's working from home while he's supposed to be taking the week off to recover and get used to his new meds.
I've not got anything else to say, really. I just needed to put this to paper, so to speak, to get stuff out there before I started to dwell. Upwards and onwards. He's alive and of sound mind and body, and despite having had "two or three others" previously, as found in his CT scan.
Still. Summers are really shitty.
I lost Spooky, Sam Samoyed, my Uncle Grey, my paternal grandfather and my dear friend Glenna, all during the consecutively falling summers of previous years.
This weekend past, my father had a stroke. It was a minor stroke, but enough so that his entire side from arm to leg went numb. It's a very scary time for my family right now, and more than ever I find myself blessed to have such an amazing group of people around me, whether they're virtual or are with me in the flesh.
My father's an asshole, and anyone who's known me any length of time will know how hard he and I clash, how often I'm reduced to a miserable, depressed wreck of a human after being picked on, bullied or just plain put down. But he's my father. I know he's scared. I've seen him up in the middle of the night, listening quietly to music and just sitting in his chair, thinking.
Outwardly, he's taking things in good stride. He's joking about his doctor visits and hamming it up about his diet changes. The blood pressure monitor device is being poked at with interest, and he's asking my questions about medical stuff. The news is slowly being broken to family members, and he's working from home while he's supposed to be taking the week off to recover and get used to his new meds.
I've not got anything else to say, really. I just needed to put this to paper, so to speak, to get stuff out there before I started to dwell. Upwards and onwards. He's alive and of sound mind and body, and despite having had "two or three others" previously, as found in his CT scan.
Still. Summers are really shitty.