My daughter is in hormone hell, my mother has stopped eating and is on morphine, Peter is meeting with the neuro-oncologist today, and my husband went straight from pheasant hunting in South Dakota to Germany.
He genuinely dos not understand why I’m not OK. He doesn’t understand how flushing my I wish grandchild down the toilet was really traumatic. His emotional bandwidth is what it is,
For some reason cranking the Jackson Brown and Simon & Garfunkel and scrubbing all the cabinets and baseboards seems like the right coping mechanism until I go to Dallas on Wednesday. I should be putting up the Christmas decorations but I’m not feeling F*ing festive.