Wake up. Stick to the routine. Walk and feed the dog. Make coffee. Shower. Shave. Dress. Dress as if you were going to work. Talk to your wife who, like you, has been working 12 hours a day, seven days a week.
Boot up the work computer. Work. Work. Work. Don't talk to co-workers because you can't. E-mail isn't the same. Do more work. Get up. Walk around the house. Make more coffee. Drink it. Remember that the second cup is never as good as the first and your stomach seems to be bothering you more and more.
Work. Work. Work. Take a break.Walk the dog. Walk the dog again. Walk the dog so much that you have holes in one pair of shoes and the other pair has soles so thin that Same Vines would be comfortable wearing them. Go back to the house. Plan dinner. Make dinner in between work stints. Listen to the orange cheeto yell from the other room as your wife continues to work. When she finishes, your still working, she decompresses by telling you about the stupidity of the briefing. You take her stress onto you.
Finish work after twelve hours. Your glad to have the work. Work a four hour shift. Work an eight hour shift. Work a twelve hour shift. Take it while you can because on day it will end and there will be no more work. That day seems to be getting closer.
Go to sleep. Sleep in the living room because the arthritis has been so bad you hardly ever sleep. And, in the living room you are in touch with the ghosts of the dogs you lost, especially the most recent one, which is a comfort.
And you can't sleep because of the nightmares, but that's another story. At least the nightmares from 2001 are replaced by new nightmares.
Make meals. Make one big thing during the week and repurpose it. Repurpose it a second time. A third time. Scrape it to the bones and make stock from the bones. Waste nothing. Use everyhing. Go shopping. Put on gloves, mask, coat, sweat like crazy because you take nothing off. Find some things. Don't find others. Found PT this week not not TP. Never TP. Getting low on TP.
Listen to podcasts. Check Twitter. It's all I have energy for.
Stop and listen to a podcast about a man who had to bury his second wife, virtually, because no one is allowed to attend a service.
Break down in the aisle of the store while shopping because You. Just. Can't. Take. It. Any. More.
Work. Work. Work.
No comments:
Post a Comment