The Couch Chronicles...Continued

Mama, I started this letter in January 2021, when it started to sink in that this battle was bigger than all of us.  I remained hopeful but there was a deep sense of dread in my soul.  I needed to prepare myself for life without you.   In early October 2020, you shared news with me that I processed immediately as bad news.  I stayed calm and asked what you would like me to do next.  You said, "wait until I get the biopsy." We ended the call.  I fell apart.  I guess I knew then, or at least my mind did what it always does, prepare for the worst. It's not good that my brain is conditioned to do that but I would rather be prepared than blindsided.   In late November, the kids and I went for a visit.  We cleaned, we laughed, we rushed around frantically at your requests and we carried on with business as usual.  You were still you; funny, witty, fiery, but you tired easily.  You weren't running circles around me, and again, I knew something wasn't quite right. I focus

Five years ago, on this very day, a very worn out Honda Pilot pulled up to the Rosewood Tavern (the nickname of the house we live in) filled with the most precious and essential belongings.  The driver, a tired, single mom of two, the copilot, a strong, caring 8th grade boy and the backseat passenger, a courageous, 7th grade spitfire too much like her mama.   We arrived late that evening, unloaded as much as we could and settled in for the night as quickly as possible because the next day, I would begin "new" teacher orientation at a school district that had offered me a job just 10 days earlier.   We really did hit the ground running when we arrived and California came for us, hard.  I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach.  For the first few months, the punches kept coming and for a brief moment I thought I had made a terrible mistake.  I had left behind friends, family, a great job and my cat.  I had relocated this tight triad for a better life, a happier, calmer, no

Saturdays have become so difficult for me.  Maybe it's the slow start, the silence, the stillness of the house that allows my thoughts to consume me.  Every Saturday since I've been back in my normal routine, I have experienced such great sadness.   I'm not boarding a plane, or picking up a rental, driving down 37 South and pulling into your driveway like I used to when I was in college, kicking up sand because I drove in too fast.  "One of these days you're going to hit one of those poles." I would laugh and say, "No I'm not mom."   I never did hit one of the poles, not physically anyway.  But metaphorically, I hit one every Saturday morning.  It takes me most of the day to come out of it.  Today, I actually thought cleaning the bathrooms would be a good idea.  Who the hell thinks that?  But then my mind fills with memories of our house on Glen Garden and how we used to clean on Saturday mornings and then to recent times when cleaning the bathro