Terrapin Station

I can cook!

That is, I can arouse myself from the torpor of daily living to chop things and make a meal. 

It started with egg salad from our Easter Egg hunt finds. I chopped celery, onion, eggs, added mayo. Pretty simple. When I finished, there was a real, created product for Ken to eat. 

I was astonished at how good that felt to do, and how long it seems to have been since I've done that. We've been eating frozen food, take out food. 

This past week: 

I made an apple dump cake in the crock pot. I bought and chopped toppings for tacos, and I remembered cilantro (which I never do). I made a pot of pinto beans. I have ingredients for soup and for quiche.

This is not cordon bleu stuff. But it is creative act. It is nourishment. It is nurturance. 

Grief is not forever. 

I arise a little more every day. 

The next part

Yesterday I saw my counselor. She asked how I was, and I said, "I'm good." "I can tell, she said," your energy is totally different today."

I've been dragging in there. I've been dragging everywhere. I've been getting out of bed, no problem, but having a real problem STAYING out of it. Daily naps, some of which lasted all day and none of which interfered with a full night's sleep. It's been like that. 

This past weekend I had a "first" - went to visit Mom for the first time since Dad died and we had his funeral. It was "the new normal." Instead of being with both of them, it was about her. Instead of staying at his apartment, I stayed at my sister's home (she is out of town right now). (I missed seeing my sister but her lovely home was beautifully peaceful.)

On the way there I had a little pity party when I considered that, not only would Daddy not be there, but his home would not, either; and in a way, I no longer have a home -  the home that my parents have always made for me for my whole life. No matter where they lived, their house was home in a way. I could walk in there and kick off my shoes, and be listened to with an attention that I will find no where else in life. 

(Of course, I have a beautiful and historic house as my home for 18 years now, and a husband I adore. It's not the same thing.) 

(Of course, I have my Mom and her room in the nursing home. My heart is there. But it's also not the same thing.)

How lucky am I to get to be 54 years old before this particular grief comes my way? 

I still feel in some ways that I'm swimming through quicksand. As a 9 on the Enneagram, I get stuck easily and stasis is a very easy spot for me to rest in. So I'm working on some decluttering in a purposeful way, and the more productive doing I accomplish, the better it gets. 

More news at 9.