For the past several days, I’ve been trying to identify a coherent theme for this week’s blog, This morning, a friend, her grief fresher than my own, said, “I feel like I’ve lost my anchor.” That was it exactly!
She too had a husband with dementia, and had been making the decisions for them both. These last few years, every action not related to writing was directed towards keeping Wayne’s and my mutual boat afloat. The responsibilities came on gradually. I could feel them weighing more and more heavily, but each new load was something I could handle.
With Wayne’s death, I clung to the idea that at least I had a clear purpose—that of finishing my writing projects. And I had Sophie to take care of. But on Saturday, after buying groceries and walking Sophie, I felt in limbo. I had plenty to do, but no will to tackle anything. My boat that morning was anchorless and directionless.
Along with that came a vague sense of anxiety. It was the anxiety that spurred me into action. I sat with a sudoku puzzle in a kind of meditative state and found a sense of inner quietude. Then I went to scrawl in my journal. After putting down my wayward thoughts, my hand went on to make a list:
Not only did I have my to-do list in hand, but I did them in that exact order, along with a few interruptions. I mowed, did a little weeding, made a quick trip to Trader Joes, changed my bed, took my walk . . . And finally at bedtime, ran through my physical therapy exercises.
This feels like it’s going to be a long siege of me against my own inertia. My only recourse is to stay in dialogue with myself. Either that or find a therapist, but the way I constantly delay taking action, journaling has to come first. Otherwise, how will I know what to do?
Who am I? seems to be a question that recurs over and over in a lifetime. I’m on a quest to see if I can get my boat propelled in the right direction.
Meanwhile, the garden is thriving. Potatoes are in the foreground.
Kate Harrington 