Little has changed since beginning the journey of farewell and preparation last July 2024 when I first learned the news about the cancer and that my son would die. Precious little has changed since the morning of November 6, 2024 when his last breath was finished.

The numbness has lightened a bit, but the heavy sadness, anger, little irritations, wanting to be alone, the lingering fatigue, and my unmasked annoyance at standard phrases (“He’s in a better place” [what an Effed-up thought!] “It gets easier with time” “Smile and laugh more and you’ll start to feel better” “You’ll meet and be together again” “Look at all the memories you have” “He’ll always be with you” “He’s right there in your heart”) and the never ceasing dull ache in my chest and gut that is clearly nothing to do with the damned MS that tortures every part of my body.

A few weeks ago, someone had the audacity to say to me, “You need to lighten up. He was adopted, not like he was your real son.” I’m not a violent person, but it was all I could do to not ram my shopping cart into the individual, followed by whacking them with my cane. Instead, they received a few colorful words embedded into a one line sentence demanding they never come near me again.

I do appreciate my private students and being with my fellow Dayton Live house managers, the Volunteers-Ushers, the bar tenders, the support staff, and the kaleidoscope of patron personalities. I get my people-fix in one huge dose and then I can go home to relax with the pooches. Ah, yes, my darling canines that love me and tolerate my moods. And, there is David with whom I Zoom daily, my sister’s texts, and loving chit-chatty emails with a second cousin.

The journey is engaged with no calendar, no timeline. Each day is simply what it is… what it needs to be – one with activity or one to remain under the covers, snuggling with the pooches.

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The following article resonates with me.

The anger.

The annoyance with common phrases.

The exhaustion.

The self-awareness and education.