Confessions...Part 3
Now that we've all had a little time to catch our breath after the first doozy of a confession, I thought we'd move along to some additional thoughts. Again, nobody's looking for a pity party or even a lecture (you know who you are...no, seriously), but I'm hoping to pull away the veil from the grieving parent so we can all hope to minister to those who so desperately need our love and support.
Confession #2: Every routine normality feels like an out-of-body experience. Three weeks ago, I cooked my first meal since February...and I did it 3 nights in a row. I knew my family needed it...I knew we had to stop spending money on eating out...but I could barely catch my breath while doing so. I felt like a fish out of water at times...like a complete other person at best...like I was sitting nearby watching me go through the motions. Crazy stuff. It's as if I couldn't remember how to boil water, let alone how to put an entire meal together. (Trust me...I wasn't that fantastic to start. 100 steps back is gonna make a dent.)
But that's how it is with everything routine these days...like an coma patient that wakes up after a year and has to retrain every muscle to function properly. The brain is sending mixed messages constantly.
"Get up...NO...go lay down!"
"Go give that wounded girlfriend a hug...go hide in a corner somewhere."
"Talk to somebody...what's the point?!?"
It gets to the point where you aren't sure what voice or message you are supposed to listen to...if any.
So imagine trying to get back into any routine of any kind...all of which seems irrelevant given what your family has experienced, yet necessary if your family ever has a hope of moving forward. Wheels turn hopelessly and helplessly which is another reason why despair lurks around every mundane corner.
How do you force your brain to reengage muscles that have atrophied when they aren't even aware of their own dismal state. Coma patients aren't discontent. It's when the haze begins to clear that we get very uncomfortable and uncertain of where we are and how we got there. It feels like it would've been easier to stay asleep. As a matter of fact, that goes without saying.
But life does go on...we are moving one direction or the other whether we realize it or not. No one and no thing remains stagnant.
Therefore, I will offer up yet another day to the Healer, or I will, in fact, be walking backward...destined to repeat the pain of this day. If for no other reason than self-preservation, I choose option A. It's still like Dawn of the Dead on my end, but at least I'm off the stretcher. Gotta start somewhere.
Confession #2: Every routine normality feels like an out-of-body experience. Three weeks ago, I cooked my first meal since February...and I did it 3 nights in a row. I knew my family needed it...I knew we had to stop spending money on eating out...but I could barely catch my breath while doing so. I felt like a fish out of water at times...like a complete other person at best...like I was sitting nearby watching me go through the motions. Crazy stuff. It's as if I couldn't remember how to boil water, let alone how to put an entire meal together. (Trust me...I wasn't that fantastic to start. 100 steps back is gonna make a dent.)
But that's how it is with everything routine these days...like an coma patient that wakes up after a year and has to retrain every muscle to function properly. The brain is sending mixed messages constantly.
"Get up...NO...go lay down!"
"Go give that wounded girlfriend a hug...go hide in a corner somewhere."
"Talk to somebody...what's the point?!?"
It gets to the point where you aren't sure what voice or message you are supposed to listen to...if any.
So imagine trying to get back into any routine of any kind...all of which seems irrelevant given what your family has experienced, yet necessary if your family ever has a hope of moving forward. Wheels turn hopelessly and helplessly which is another reason why despair lurks around every mundane corner.
How do you force your brain to reengage muscles that have atrophied when they aren't even aware of their own dismal state. Coma patients aren't discontent. It's when the haze begins to clear that we get very uncomfortable and uncertain of where we are and how we got there. It feels like it would've been easier to stay asleep. As a matter of fact, that goes without saying.
But life does go on...we are moving one direction or the other whether we realize it or not. No one and no thing remains stagnant.
Therefore, I will offer up yet another day to the Healer, or I will, in fact, be walking backward...destined to repeat the pain of this day. If for no other reason than self-preservation, I choose option A. It's still like Dawn of the Dead on my end, but at least I'm off the stretcher. Gotta start somewhere.
