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Living in the not

Have you ever felt inexplicably irritable? For a week or month at a time?

Now it’s time for the truth. I have an explanation, I’ve just been reluctant to talk about it. It feels like an excuse. Part of me lives in fear… like if I say it out loud a mob of disturbingly happy people with “The Secret” will bombard me with platitudes. Then, on top of feeling grumpy, I’ll lose my lunch. The best damn yogurt I’ve had all day.

Oh, I’ve talked about the reason. I just haven’t copped to feeling run over by it. (At least, I don’t think I have.) Part of me feels shame – that my troubles don’t deserve the pity I heap on myself.

It doesn’t help that I know it’s all garbage. We all have problems, larger and smaller, and we’re allowed to be upset by them.

The good news is I’m sleeping better. A combination of advice from my doctor and friends seems to have my restless legs (somewhat) under control. The bad news is I’m still really tired. Worrying about Cheryl doesn’t help. We’re getting to the point where we’ve just about ruled in surgery. Now we talk about possible nerve damage and things that may never be fixed. Now we wonder how long her department will hold her job, or if they’ll let her work with any physical limitations.

The funny thing is, I don’t mind the extra work. I’m not a big fan of chores – as if anyone is, but doing a few extra things around the house hasn’t been a big deal. My part-time taxi gig (for Beth’s activities) started before the accident, so I can’t blame it on that. Besides, I kind of like going to Tae Kwon Do. I may grumble about it from time to time, but that’s just me being grumpy… hence this post.

That little corner of my mind – the selfish prick in me – was worried about picking up the slack. I’m happy to say I’m not quite as selfish as I thought. Much of the time the extra work feels gratifying – the one thing I have some control over, to make things a little better for Cheryl.

I feel like all of it is wasted when I succumb to a blue period. I want to be an emotional rock of support, not mud. I want to fix things, not make my own messes. Maybe fix isn’t the right word. I know I can’t fix everything. Maybe that’s my problem. I know but I don’t really understand.

Hah! Look who’s speaking in platitudes now?

1 Comment

  1. Hello John

    The surgery is the only answer now. I know she’d love to be back to normal.

    Cheryl’s a rare and beautiful soul; if I could receive her suffering for a just few days, I would do so without a moments hesitation! I pray (at 1PM every weekday) that the surgeons hands will be guided with flawless, supernatural skill. She’ll need a good MRI first to see all the nerves. The technology for complete success is there.

    The others at the job are working hard to pick up the slack and look forward to Cheryl’s return. I’ve already volunteered to transport heavy files, that is IF I’m still there after budget cuts.

    Hang in there brother … “No worries mate”!

    -Brian

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