The Perfect Analogy - One Week Out

This is the way my craft room looks today. It is the perfect symbol for how I feel.

I am worn out and in a bit of shambles. My doors are wide open and the contents of my cupboards are spilling out all over the floor. Disarray and messiness is everywhere. I have been rushing from crisis to crisis with no time to straighten up, to rest before the next one hits or to start assessing the damage. It is just all out there exposed and heaped one on top of the other.

My dad's brain cancer was a roller coaster of few ups and mostly downs. The protective safety harnesses were tested to their very limit and then some. Yesterday was the memorial service and today is the first day where there is not a to-do list that pushes me to places I did not know existed.

There were kindnesses and grace when it was most needed, both from strangers and friends. There were times when I was silent with piercing grief and times when I could not talk fast enough to process the events. There were times when love washed over me and helped me get back up and face the next day/the next hour. There were such sharp disappointments - missing Squam with Angela and Jen Lee - juxtaposed with tender mercies of an encouraging email or a friend saying, "Hold on, I am coming" and dropping everything to be with me when I was a hot mess. There were hospice workers who brought such peace of mind and comfort to our family in a very matter of fact, everyday way not knowing they were taking my breath away with their compassion that allowed me to keep going a bit longer.

And now I need sleep. A whole night of sleep without two phones beside my bed, without one eye on the clock and constantly taking the temperamental temperature of the family. Is everyone OK? Who needs special attention or a break today? Is this The Day?

I need routine. I have not bought groceries in weeks. I have cooked one meal in three weeks. I need quiet and warming sunshine. I need space to grieve and heal all at the same time. I need my art room straightened, the gaping open doors gently closed and the sense of peace that comes from order. I need to know that my family is OK and that recovery has entered the house.

Dear Recovery,
You are cordially invited...