It hits me the hardest when I put down my luggage. A stillness settles over me as my heart remembers you are no longer here to promptly sit on it while I try to put everything away. I am defeated.
I will carry the memory of the loss of you with me for several more days before it settles back into the reality of my existence and the loss begins to be normal again.
You aren’t sitting on my lap and incessantly demanding I lie still to make up for the time we lost when I was away.
You aren’t rubbing against my face when I try to use the computer, insistent that all attention should be paid to you. I’ve never had an easier time writing.
I have homework to do. I have to read up on this scary disease and I don’t want to. I want to play with my dog or read a great work of fiction or watch Jane The Virgin.
I don’t want to record my symptoms in my pain journal and read about parathesia and nerve sensitivity.
Sometimes I hate being a grown up. There isn’t anyone here to make me stay in my room until my homework is done so I have to motivate myself to do it even though all I want to do is something else.
I guess we’ll see if the whiny teenager inside of me wins and I play StarDew Valley all day or if the grown ass woman wins and I do what I am supposed to do.
Who are you voting for?
Managing life with chronic illness requires savvy spoons
SavvySpoons 