There is a lot to be said for the distraction of the arts. I am beginning to appreciate why tortured souls gravitate toward the creative. It's an outlet, a distraction, it's something besides the terrible shit you are feeling inside yourself.
This, for instance, is Coke poured on paper, as captured by Andy Warhol.
Andy was weird.
We took Yoda with us, on loan from my friend Allison, and had many fine adventures at the High with him. For a while, I forgot the adult things weighing on me, the loss of my mom, the pending loss of my dad, the grief that is swirling around.
There has been a lot of types of Coke bottles. WHO KNEW?
We went into a little hidden alcove and found lots of fancy porcelain objects, of various ilk. According to the placard this next one is a sweetmeats dish. What the hell is a sweet meat.
According to Google it's candy or confections. Ok fine. CANDY DISH. Got it.
The truth is, as much as I want to lay in bed and stop existing for a while every night that's not a luxury I have. Yoda would tell me there is no TRY as we all know, so while I like to lay in bed and cry and say I'm trying to get over it all really I just have to keep getting up and living.
Do, or do not. There is no try.
My brother did the hard thing but the right thing of doing the paperwork for dad's DNR and some hospice paperwork and we chatted about it like it was normal. It IS normal, it is NOT normal. We're imminently adult orphans. Not yet, but probably soon.
So I watched my food all day, and I didn't have the fucking apple pie in the machine, and I worked out when I got home, and I'm thinking of trying planking because Christa says she thinks I can do it and it's good for my core where I have zero strength.
And as for me, I am thinking about my brother facing the grim reality that is my dying father face to face. I am thinking about my mom is who is gone and lost to me forever. I am thinking of the family vacations we took before Matt was born, when my dad was still spending time with us. I am thinking of the lost days and years that my dad's mental illness kept me away from the people I love.
Mostly though, I am thinking about how everything ends, and I feel so sorry that some day my children will have to go through this - no matter how natural this is. I regret so much that I'm going to die and make them this sad.
Do no resuscitate. Let him go.
Mom was right, he went to hell. He's there now, desperately trying to follow her.