Apologies are required

I owe you an apology, I know. I’ve rehearsed it in my head, the words I will use, the tone of voice and the subtle “I’m sorry” it will include. I owe you an apology, I know. But you’re probably never getting it.

My father used to do this thing where he blew up, he would make mountains out of molehills, leaving us baffled over his extreme reaction to small things. As I’ve grown up I’ve realized he was reacting to other things, but that was never any consolation.

He never apologized. He would be extra nice for a while, and we all knew why. He was trying to make up for whatever he said or did without having to say the words “I’m sorry” or “I was wrong.”

I guess I’m more like him than I thought.

I’ve previously written that my first reaction is something I’ve had to learn to ignore. My first instinct is to confront, argue, yell — never the reaction that will make things better, never the tone that will solve the issue.

Today I did that. I lashed out on something that wasn’t a big deal to someone who actually wasn’t really at fault. And I knew immediately that I was wrong.

I’ve been practicing my apology in my head all day. And that’s where it stayed.

I never said that I made sense.

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image source: WikiImages / Pixabay

Hospice

I just learned that the doctors have given in — they’ve told my family that there’s nothing else they can do for my grandmother. She’s too weak to survive any more treatment or the surgery.

My mother is devastated, though she says she already knew this was coming. But I know that you’re never really ready for your parent to die.

My grandmother is being placed in a hospice for end of life care. They are going to try and “make her comfortable,” but they’ve told my family that they need to start making arrangements. What they mean is that we need to make plans for what happens when she dies.

I don’t know what happens in the meantime. I’ve offered and offered and prompted and bullied my mother to no avail — she says she doesn’t want to go see my grandmother while she’s in pain and so sick. And I keep telling her that I think she’ll regret that later.

What she feels and why she’s made that decision are personal to her, and not something I feel I can share here. They’re not mine to share.

And now we wait…

Image source: Giuliamar / Pixabay

Dangerous spider bites (infographic)

I am afraid of spiders. It’s a phobia. It’s a family joke. It’s something that defies logic and wisdom.

With that knowledge I share this infographic, letting me know which spiders are actually dangerous and which aren’t. (Even though, in my mind, they all are.)

Dangerous U.S. Spider Bites Guide

Explore more infographics like this one on the web’s largest information design community – Visually.

 

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Having trouble viewing this infographic? Click here to visit the original.

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In pain

OpenClips / Pixabay

The past few days have been marked by overwhelming and consistent pain in my lower back. It hasn’t been this bad in years. I’ve been trying to minimize it with a combination of over-the-counter muscle relaxers and pain killers, but that’s not working. Will need to go to the doctor’s office for real medicine, and a diagnosis on what caused the pain. I didn’t do anything, just woke up one day unable to straighten up. And the pain seems to be getting worse every day. Lovely.

Image source: OpenClips / Pixabay

A nervous tic

2014.02 eyeI can see my heartbeat… in my right eyelid. More accurately, my eyelid is fluttering to the tune of my heartbeat, showing me my pulse. If I place my finger lightly over it, I can feel it and count it out.

It’s annoying as hell.

This started a few months ago. At first it was once in a few days. Now it’s a few times a day.

I have a nervous tic. WTF???!!!

I read up and “pulsation of the lid it is usually due to stress, fatigue and caffeine intake.” Lovely. I’m not going to reduce my caffeine intake (it’s in the best interest of the safety of the world that that not happen), and my stress isn’t going away. Fatigue… maybe I can do something about fatigue. More sleep would probably be a good thing.

And my eyelid continues doing this fluttery thing… pulse, pulse, pulse, pulse. It doesn’t hurt, but it distracts me. That’s all I needed, one more thing to distract me, one more irritant.

Pulse, pulse, pulse, pulse. In the middle of meetings, as I try to edit videos, while I was recording a TV interview, while trying to focus and take photos… pulse, pulse, pulse, pulse.

Have I mentioned that God hates me?

A good daughter… and a bad daughter

2014.02 heartI got tired of being subtle… I volunteered to take my mother to see her mother. I can’t say the words, “You need to see your mother in case the worst happens.” I can’t tell her that she needs to see her mother before she dies, in case she dies. The words just will not erupt from my mouth. There’s a kind of block between what I want to say and the words themselves.

A visit to my mother’s hometown is not on my list of things I want to do. I am well acquainted with my inner selfish tendencies; I have long since accepted my inner voice. In this case it’s telling me that the timing is all wrong… I won’t enjoy the visit at all… I don’t have close emotional ties to that part of my family… I can’t afford the trip… I will be the only person there to provide emotional support (which isn’t my best thing)… I know, in advance I know, that I’m going to regret the trip.

The list of things running through my mind is endless. I hear each and every reason why I don’t want to go, very clearly. I just don’t say them out loud.

It was my idea. I’ve known for weeks that this trip has to happen. I’ve known that my mother won’t go on her own, that I can’t send her by herself. I know that I have to make sure that she goes. I volunteered. It was my idea.

I’m not a bad person for acknowledging that I don’t want to make the trip. But I never considered not making it. I never thought even for a moment that I wouldn’t go. I always knew that I was going to make this trip.

There is a part of me that knows that I want to make the trip for me too… in case the worst happens.

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