I don’t feel like writing

I should. The last week has been so awful that I should have written, just to process it. But I had no time and I was too taken up with this messy, awful business of my father dying. Then there was the day that I had a sort of mental short circuit and could feel myself spiraling into maniac behavior, due to lack of sleep and pressure. That day I went home; I napped for an hour and pottered in my garden for an hour or so and then I went back to the necessary hard work I was engaged in and that evening my father died.


Which I will write about and which I suggest most people do not read ( I will password protect because it is SO graphic – ask me when I post it).


I had previously organized, very last minute, to take two weeks off work: it was patently clear that I needed to be with my stepmother and assist his dying and she could not do it without me. My brother was originally going to go away for a holiday down south; he, too, decided that he would stay.
Between my stepmother, my brother and myself we formed a tag team that handled it all and we developed a weird energy between us. As it turned out, he died two days after we took him home from hospital and the time off we had both arranged proved not to be necessary. I am taking it, anyway.
I have arranged people to stay with my stepmother over the next ten days (she is taking it very hard and can’t be left alone) now that the shock of the first few days has passed. I am also dealing with the emotions of my two daughters, both who also have current other traumatic stuff going on in their lives. Plus, my half sister E, who flew out from the UK to say goodbye to the man who was no blood relation but bound by love. I have had no time for her at all really, and yet she wants to process it all.
Wednesday morning I am throwing on a backpack and walking south down the Bibbulmun Track. I don’t know how far I will get but I just want to be alone – I am a hair’s breadth away from completely breaking down and I need space to be able to mourn the horror of the last few months.
I’ve got to say that I feel very bitter towards the medical profession right now – they promised a pain free death and I suppose that was true, but only on semantics. We are calling it peaceful and pain free but that was only about the last six hours of his life and hospice  care provided no care, apart from administering drugs, at all.
My father and I used to walk the beautiful hills of the Darling Range together for hours. If there is a place in the world that I might best mourn his passing, this will be it.
Call it a pilgrimage of sorts.

About quirkycharm

I like to think that I have a certain quirky charm but I am probably being optimistic. Acquired taste, perhaps, which many don't acquire. This is about my fifth blog out there. My hosting companies kept going out of business or my IT exhusband kept hacking into them and I would move again. I don't do twitter, I barely do facebook, I don't try and 'monetize' my blog. I love my husband, my grown children and my job and this particular incarnation of oversharing my life comes at a time when I am the most content that I have ever been. I write always, sporadically during the good stuff and exhaustingly during the bad.
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2 Responses to I don’t feel like writing

  1. Snowy says:

    My condolences, Kitty. I think you have done all that was possible to try to make your father’s final days as comfortable as you could. And you are right to grieve in the way that you choose to. The sun will shine again one day.

  2. quirkycharm says:

    Thank you, Snowy. I don’t feel depressed or even sad right now; I just feel traumatised. And upset that I wasn’t able to make it better for him, in spite of all my trying.

    Grief will come, I will mourn my father and this whole thing will become background to my life, rather than central.

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