Feel Like Some Old Engine That Lost My Drivin' Wheel

Entry 1    5:10 p.m.

Its been a quiet day. Jenny was gone early to chemo, Abby at school. Since I am not working, and the house is ship shape, I spent a lot of time reading, texting with friends and pacing, waiting for the dog groomer to come. 

Leiney, 2nd grade.

It has been an overwhelming roller coaster the last few weeks. Between internal bleeding, terminal delirium, hospice talk, infidelity and everything else going on, I am wrung out. When I think I am at an emotional nadir, the bottom falls out again. It feels like. . . well, I would compare it to that ride that used to be at the Puyallup Fair, where you go into this circular room with no ceiling and high walls. Everyone is lined up with their backs against the wall, and the room literally begins to spin. As it goes faster, the floor drops out from under you, and you are stuck to the wall. Well,  almost stuck. In fact, you are slowly sliding toward the floor, and the slow realization of this forces panic to rise in your throat, fearing you will hit the floor, spin out of control, and be flung
onto an adjacent wall. Then, just as the ride seems to be slowing down, the floor drops again, and you are sliding into free fall. Welcome to my life.

But today, prone, typing in my computer, I hope that I can let the air fill my sails and let me feel good about what is to come, aside from Jenny's final demise from cancer. I will go and work out with Leiney in a few minutes, punch the bag and call it good. 

When I feel I am near the end of my rope, some friend or two steps in and tells me it will be o.k. I am sad, overwhelmed with sadness more often than not. Human connection is all that there is, ultimately to bring meaning to life. I admit, my writing sometimes makes me come off as a poor version of the ancient mariner, wizened, desperate, albatross around my neck, pleading for people to hear my tale of woe. I am pissed, but I don't feel sorry for myself, stuck between the devil and the deep blue sea I may be, but I can get in my life raft any time I want and sail away. That I wake up each day and continue to love Jennifer and to care for her is a choice. Love is a choice. It's a habit that is hard to break, but it can be done. I choose to keep going for my children, and because I love Jennifer too much to see her suffer as she is fighting and eventually succumbing to this scourge of a cancer. While all of this about Jennifer may be true, without sympathy, without shouting into the void, I don't know how I could cope.



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