I wanted to do a quick reminder here about my Beatles contest. So far, I only have one entry.
The deadline is April 1st. You can check out the rules here.
I know that most of you are busy with your own projects, so I am not taking it personally. Perhaps I should have made the prize more kick-ass. :)
I’ve always been an excellent worrier. Even as a kid, I had that shit on lock down. It’s always come natural to me, focusing my attention on all that is wrong in my world. My father was sick growing up, so my obsession had plenty of fuel. He spent time in the hospital because of his faulty heart. I was young, but not stupid. I knew that he wasn’t well.
Now I am facing something that reminds me of my childhood fears. My mom’s health is declining. This is a topic that I have stayed away from here, because writing about it somehow makes it real. But I need to.
I worry. I hate to see her so ill. True, she just turned 70. Not too shabby. She’s been a smoker since she was a young girl. It has wrecked havoc within her body. Oh, she’ll never quit though. I understand the addiction, for I am the same way. My father also was unable to quit, even though doing so may have lengthened his life some.
She is having yet another procedure this morning, trying to open up some arteries in her stomach. She can’t eat and is getting skinnier by the day. We are hoping that this helps her. I am waiting to hear something from my aunt, who is with her.
My stomach is in knots, just like hers is I suppose.
I don’t want her to read this, because I don’t want her to worry about me. It’s my turn to be strong for her. My mother has been my constant my entire life and I am afraid of losing her, although I know that it is inevitable. Just writing that makes me feel like crying like a baby.
Do I hit publish and release my fears? Yeah, it’s time.