Wednesday, September 03, 2008
picnic table in the fog
I've met, now, with a minister and a funeral home director and a lawyer and a financial planner and the smarmy head of my mother's retirement community. I've looked at wills and things signed by both my parents, which makes me turn my head and catch my breath. I have a raft of half completed documents in my purse, emails, 2 packs of the least horrible thank you notes they have at Ingles and an appointment to meet with the accountant. I've woken up at 3:00 in the morning, thrown up and worried for an hour or more over what to do with my aunt, the QOB. I've lost four pounds, cried and cried, spoken with old friends for hours, drunk a lot of vodka and talked on the phone until my ears hurt and yet, I'm still sort of not really here.
I had every intention of making it to work today, for example. I didn't. And those documents are still half completed and the huge, enormous, terrifying list of things I need to be doing right now isn't even being approached while I sit here in pajamas and shoo the kitten off my lap. This isn't okay, I know. I have so much to do and I can't just sit still like this. But somehow, I can't do anything else either.