When words aren't enough

I haven't felt like writing much lately.
The passion behind the outpouring of words hasn't been with me. I haven't wanted to allow my soul to speak through my words for fear of what it will say. The thoughts that follow me throughout my day and into my dreams range from confusing to horrifying, mundane to comical. I need to let them out of my head and free myself of them, but I am afraid to.

My grandfather is dying.
Not in the sense in which all of us are dying. He is sick and this disease is slowly eating at his body and his spirit.
In the beginning, he was brave and handled every little setback with a smile. I noticed as the cancer began to eat away at the edges of his vanity, and he would brush it off, but I saw traces of it there. He was seventy when diagnosed, but you never would have known it. That may sound old, but for my grandparents, age is truly just a number. They were, up until this illness, traveling frequently, parasailing and hiking through remote tropical forests; walking each morning and night together, lifting weights and swimming laps in their backyard pool. Seventy was no setback. I have seen it, in his eyes, which until of late have still held the sparkle of youth. When he struggles to stand, and someone reaches to help him, I see the wound to his pride as though it were visceral, made of flesh and bone as he is.
My grandmother was alone for so long. She worked, always, two or three jobs. She struggled to support the four children and husband she had waiting at home. That, of course, was when my grandfather was at home, and he wasn’t always. He would disappear for weeks on end. When her children were grown and he disappeared again she decided it would be the last time, quietly gathering his things and placing them neatly in boxes outside the front door, its sparkling new lock guarding her from changing her mind. She was alone even before this, but after she was really alone. I would visit, and I would sleep in her bed, it’s white sheets always crisp and cool, the down mattress cover and comforter crinkling contentedly with my weight. I remember once, pulling back the heavy white pillow to find the shock of black metal shining against so much snowy white. The innocence of the bedding affronted by the violence of her handgun. But she was alone, and how could anyone blame her. And this was before Len.
They met when they worked together at Angel Stadium, eloped in Hawaii in matching Hawaiian shirts just to avoid “making a fuss” for everyone by marrying here. They worked together, from the Stadium, to the Pond, to the Grove, each place with matching shifts, matching smiles, holding hands. They were always on the go, and had just planned a trip they had each waited a lifetime to take. They had booked flights to Italy. Then my grandfather decided to see the doctor; he was feeling run-down. He thought most likely that he had a virus, and they ran some tests to find out. It was bone cancer.
The chemotherapy rendered him tired and nauseated. He became diabetic from the medication. They tried, time and time again to perform the bone marrow transplant he needed, but he was never well enough, and then developed pneumonia. They sent him home. We kept smiling, bolstered by his incredible confidence. Somewhere deep inside my heart told me that it was his confidence and positivism that kept him alive.
Now it is spring, and three years have passed. The world is in bloom with new life. The very air we breathe thick with the scent of flowers, their freshly unfurled petals coloring every empty surface. I drive to my grandparents’ house to pick them up and drive them to Easter. My grandfather is not ready to go, as it turns out, he is not going, in dress pants and a pajama shirt that hangs from his frame. He has lost another 45, 50 pounds. It’s difficult to keep track now. It’s like watching a tragedy in slow motion. My grandmother, so long alone before, is now preparing herself to be without him. Trips have been canceled. The kitchen table, so long before covered in travel magazines and newspapers, now littered with pill bottles, means for counting and sorting and administering the medication.
“He’s finally given up hope” she tells me in the car, fearing that his anxiety over the impending test results he will not receive for another week yet have broken him. He braces himself for the worst, fearing that every pain and sensation is a bad omen. Rather than smiling through the worst of the pain, with hope in his heart for recovery, the barrage of setbacks and bad news have sunken to the deepest levels of his psyche, and he now tries to steady his heart for the devastating news he feels is imminent.

I haven’t dealt with it. How can I? I feel that my optimism requires me to believe wholeheartedly that he will be just fine. But he’s not. He’s not fine now. What do I expect?

What do I do?

Running

This post will not actually be about running, since we all know how much I hate it. Instead, it will be about the marathon I feel as though I am running these days.

I wake up exhausted. Why? I don't really know. I think the mental marathon I'm running in is taking its toll on my physical form. I have something planned almost every single day of my life, and I really despise that. I like my free time. No, more than like, I love it. I am addicted to it. I need it to maintain my sanity. I am not one of those people who is energized by being in the company of others, quite the opposite actually. I feel as though my interactions with others drain me and I need my alone time to recharge. I don't want to sound antisocial; I love people, but I only love them when I get my breaks from them.

I am not going to bore *all* my readers with a list of the things I am doing, but I have recently discovered that I have three free (as of now) weekends from now until July. Three. I could throw up. And among them, two weddings, a shower I'm co-hosting, three 50th birthday parties, one 21st, and one anniversary party. Oh and I have stuff to do to. Like find the rest of my wedding vendors. Have my ring re-set and pick out our bands. Find bridesmaid dresses. Lose weight ("5-7 pounds, 15 is too much"-wedding dress seamstress). Re-do my kitchen. Register for gifts. Okay now I'm listing. I apologize. But seriously, what the hell is going on?

This week

...will be better than the last. I have decided to believe so, and I will make this happen.

I hope you are all as awed at the magnitude of this as I am. To acknowledge that this week can bring great things, and allow yourself to be open to them. Or in some cases, to seek them out.

Happy Monday!

The stress monster

I am not a stress monster.
Really.
But the stress monster has been nipping at my heels lately.
My job is becoming a little more overwhelming. I want to do more here, and I want to learn, but the more I know, the more I can do, and the more I have assigned to me. I feel a teeny bit over my head right now. for some reason, this feeling makes me want to
a) quit my job and only deal with social/family/general life responsibilities
b) go back in time to college (why did it pass so quickly)
c) run screaming
I have not done any of those things (to be fair, only option c is actually possible unless someone lends me a time machine).
The weird thing is how stress affects all parts of your life. I feel like I am doing okay not letting stress invade and take over my life until I realize little things. I fall asleep during conversations and movies I am enjoying. I realize that my jaw hurts because I have suddenly started clenching my teeth; when and why, I don't know. Josh tells me that I am snoring, breathing loudly, and moving a lot in my sleep. I have dreams about work.
I am normally a very heavy sleeper. I fall asleep and stay in whatever position I was in until morning. Lately I'm having trouble falling asleep at the right times and staying asleep, and waking up is a challenge. I toss and turn and wake up frequently. I have begun to remember a lot of my dreams, and among them are dreams of work. Many are mundane; I dream of things I haven't done or need to do, or sending email, or sitting at my desk. A memorable one last weekend was that my job was sending me to Florida for a week. I had a mixture of excitement and sadness. I knew it was a good opportunity for me, but it was taking me away from my home and family. Then they came to pick me up for the airport and I didn't have pants on. I know this is a typical "feeling unprepared" dream, but I remember the disappointment of my co-workers the most. It seemed to drag on and on and never in the dream did I find some pants.

I need a vacation.

But seriously, do I listen to dreams and the feeling I keep shoving into the back of my mind that this job may be too much for me, or do I ignore those thoughts, realize that they are deceptive and ruinous, and inspire myself once again that I can do this?