My body aches everywhere from three days of packing up my mother-in-law’s house in New York. I told Hubby I wouldn’t go if I had to carry things, but as it turns out, it was mostly just me and him left to empty 70 years worth of tools, metal rods, sheet metal, boxes of tiles, nuts, bolts, rivets, clothes, books, memorabilia, and all of the “just in case” junk that people collect and can’t seem to ever purge from their lives.
We filled up an entire large dumpster, just the two of us.
I’d forgotten my sleeping pills, and the heating system was broken, so until we got it fixed on the last night we were there, we slept in a frigid room. Oh, I wouldn’t call it sleeping exactly. I stay up all night listening to Hubby snoring away and sharing my tiny bed and covers with a squirming dog who was unable to get comfortable himself.
I dragged myself to my chiropractor this morning and told him, “fix me”. He did his analyzing and adjusting and then declared me ready to go, and I dragged myself back home and back to bed. And now here it is, 2PM and I’m finally out of bed.
The really nice thing is that I would not have been able to do this physical work a year ago. Pushing myself to exercise and go to the chiropractor saved my back. Right now I’m just sore all over, but the bad part of my back seems to have held up just fine throughout it all. I’m really please that I’m making positive progress in the physical realm.
Mentally I’m still fighting depression and sleep issues. Hubby and I went out for Mexican food on our last night in New York and I ordered a margerita. The service was so slow, we hogged down on multiple bowls of chips and salsa and I drank almost the entire margerita, which is a lot for me. I ended up sobbing into my chimichangas, feeling overwhelmed at everything. Hubby looked at me and said, “I’m really sorry, Honey, that you feel bad. I just can’t identify with what you’re going through. I’m sorry.”
We drove to the memory care facility where my mother-in-law now lives and predictably, she had no idea who I was. She gave me a funny look when I touched her, as though to say, “What are you doing, lady?” She once told me, “Old age is not for sissies.” I can say absolutely that this is true. But although she has her moments of anxiety, she’s mostly in a good place mentally and her accommodations are comfortable. She has a nice 24-hour caretaker who lives in the room with her. I’m very happy that she’s not suffering.
When I was leaving my chiropractor, it turns out his receptionist and one of the women in the waiting room both had parent with dementia, and we had a nice conversation about it. I didn’t feel so alone.
I looked at the Daily Prompt this morning and tried my best to think up a joke to tell, but my exhausted brain couldn’t even begin to think of anything haha to tell. I could only come up with the punchline to a joke my father-in-law used to tell: “He looks down at his plate and picks up a spoonful of grub, inspecting it. ‘Hm… it sure does look like shit.’ Then he takes a sniff of it. ‘Smells like shit too…’. Then he takes a bite out of it. ‘Tastes exactly like shit… But iiiiittt’s good!”
So there you go, the closest I can come to a joke today — maybe any day. I used to buy joke books and memorize the best jokes so I could go into work and be more of a card. That’s really the closest I’ve ever come to telling a joke in my entire life. Sad, isn’t it?