I mean, I don't know why he wouldn't have thumbs in heaven, because he had them on earth. But the ones he had on earth were cremated with the rest of his moral remains and are now in one of five vessels (or in any combination thereof). And I didn't come here today to expand upon my thoughts and beliefs about what heaven is like, although believe you me, I have plenty of thoughts and beliefs to share about that topic now. And lots and lots of questions about it, too. More than I ever would have thought possible. It's funny, the things you don't really THINK about until a loved one dies.
But, I digress.
Week 8 and counting. Practically at 8.5 weeks by now, but that's okay. That's why I said "and counting". I didn't write on the actual week 8 day. I spent that Thursday at my Mom's house, which is weird to say "my Mom's house" instead of "my parents' house", and I don't mean to intentionally exclude my Dad from that, but it's just a technicality. Some days I'm the only person my Mom talks to, and I really wish there was more I could do about that. But I've already learned an important thing about myself -- I can't fix everything.
At the beginning of my Dad's diagnosis with dementia, I spent countless insert-amount-of-time-here beating myself up over the fact that I couldn't fix him. I was a nurse, I was his daughter, and I was helpless. It took me a long time to come to terms with that and realize it was okay. It wasn't my job to fix him. In the nurse v daughter battle, I'm a daughter first and foremost and always. I can't be both. I mean, I can, but when it comes time to only be one, and there are many times when I can only be one, I'm a daughter. And it really doesn't matter, I could've been a freakin' neurosurgeon for all it mattered, because it didn't matter. That's the point. All the knowledge and education and experience of anything in the world did not matter in the end. What mattered was the love.
So anyway, I'm having to use this now with my Mom. My Mom is physically pretty healthy, as far as I can tell. She doesn't like going to the doctor, so she avoids it as much as possible. Until she broke her hip a few years ago, she hadn't been to the doctor since she birthed me. I don't want to give too much of her personal info out here, so I won't. But there are times now when it's like, I have to just remind myself, it's not up to me to fix things. I can listen. I can offer advice if asked. I can, for lack of a better analogy, refer to the proper specialists when I know something is out of my wheelhouse. But I can't and won't take on something that I know isn't my problem to fix. Especially not when I have enough of my own problems to work on right now.
And I pray. I pray a LOT. God is probably tired of hearing from me, that's how much I pray. (Kidding! I know He would NEVER get tired of hearing from me!!) Sometimes it's full-out, stop everything I'm doing and completely and totally focus everything on praying, making sure I follow some kind of structure (addressing God, giving thanks, asking for specific blessings, ending with the Lord's Prayer). Sometimes it's just a quick thought (Hey God, I'm kinda worried about blah-blah-blah...) or request (I just read so-and-so's message or CaringBridge post, please let them know I'm thinking about them...) or a question (Dear God, what is the point of dementia?) but I converse with God in my head an awful dang lot.
My point was that, oh yeah, Thursday I was with my Mom and we were both in bad moods. Me because it was almost Friday, and her because, probably the same reason, but also because she spends like the first few hours that I'm there just venting and I just let her go off because that's what she needs to do. And I was really starting to think that I maybe shouldn't go over there on Thursdays or Fridays anymore, because those are not typically my best days and, after all, I need to look after my own mental health as well, right? But then things start to even out and turn around and I figure, alright, I'll stay. I did promise my Dad I'd take care of my Mom.
But, for the first time since my Dad died, I was scheduled to work in the office on Friday.
And you know what? That actually worked out really well. I was in a better mood than I usually am on Fridays. It was an alright day.
Speaking of work, I better get back to it. Charts still don't prep themselves. TTFN!
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