Candles in my brain

I remember in years past when we, as a family, were making our first trip together on a plane.  We were going to Alaska.  I told Kerry that I think he and I are supposed to travel separately, each with the kids split between us.  This was in case something happened to the others there would still be a parent alive to take care of the other children.  He told me if anything happened to the kids he didn’t want to be around so we all traveled together.  Nothing ever happened.

The sayings “never say never” and “you won’t know what you will do till you get there” are probably the most accurate of any I have ever known.  Although I’ve always lived by the first, I did think I would know how I would respond in most situations.  After all, who knows me better than me?  But I was wrong.  Dead wrong.  So wrong that I surprised even myself.  Even today I still don’t know what I will be doing tomorrow or even the next hour.  Never have I lived “minute to minute” like I do now.  Although that should bother me, it doesn’t anymore.  I’ve always been somewhat of a planner.  I used to think that’s what mothers do.  Or at least one parents.  Someone has to remember to carry all the necessary health care products and extra clothing on outings.  I’ve always assumed that’s what purses were created for. 

Because of Danny’s heart there has always been this little candle light of knowledge flickering in the back of my mind that he might not make it.  There, I’ve said it.  This is something I’ve never actually said out loud.  Danny has said in the past that he probably won’t make it past 30.  I, of course, shun his every negative thought with grandiose pictures of old age.  His thoughts aren’t really that negative, more like stating a fact.  So this little candle light is bright enough to cause me to envision what I would do if something happened to Danny.  I have no freakin idea now what I would do.  Probably go into a catatonic state – that sounds reasonable – then I can just ignore life and dream my fantasy of life as it was.  Or maybe just stop breathing......My counselor says not to go there.  Planning for disasters doesn’t make it any less painful when it happens (true). It just makes you live the pain longer (also true).  Now, you go tell my psyche that.

I think I’ve said this before but I have noticed lately that little things irritate me more.  Stupid little inanimate objects that fall over (cups on the shelf), stick to you (lint), burn (toast), and most especially talking inanimate objects – like the pot hole commercial.  I almost gagged when I heard that one.  I used to not be so irritable.  I can feel it in my shoulders all the time.    

I have to force myself to slow down and take a breath.  I never find time to write anymore because of all the other things I want to do.  I can feel the words backing up in my brain causing a blockage.  I know there is ‘writers block’.  Is there something called ‘writers constipation’?