Image by califmom via Flickr
It’s not working. This is not a surprise to me. I know my brain. We’ve been together for over forty years now. I ask a lot of it. Not so much of my body, but my brain, yes.
I ask it to manage the input of all the knowledge about Bob’s cancer. Even the things he doesn’t know. The statistics. The ugly, ugly statistics. I push them to the corners over my ears. I feel the pressure there now.
I ask my brain to manage my emotions--the emotions that are fighting to fall apart when I want to explain to my kids that these are the last two nights they’ll see daddy before, before…see, before what? I don’t want to finish that sentence. I has two endings. Neither one wants to come out of my mouth.
I put my brain in charge of choosing the best option.
I put my brain in charge of planning our accommodations for tomorrow night, the logistics of the next two days, the finishing up of the laundry, kids’ schedules, meals for my dad and the kids while I’m gone. I let my brain handle the limbo that lies ahead.
Then, at night, when I lie down to sleep, my brain tells me what’s up by spinning the room around in circles like a tilt-o-whirl. I grab for my iPhone to have some kind of light to use to anchor myself in space, to make the spinning stop. My brain says, “thank you.”
Together, my brain and I read something unrelated to our life until we drift off into dreams we’d rather not remember, listening to the sounds of a husband straining to breathe as the cancer comes racing back.