When Your Head is Made of Wood

A head made of wood makes it difficult to move through your days.

I can remember in my wooden brain that I used to be a fully functioning person.

At the moment, I can only let the wood turn back into flesh for a few minutes at a time. Because when I do, I lose the numbness that has become my new pal.

This stuff, like a cartoon anvil, seemed to land all at once.

I went back to Indiana to see Mom and Dad. I knew that Dad had "gone downhill" as they say. And then I saw him in person.

[See what I've written so far? That took a very long time. Because I've gone all log-headed again and that takes my verbal skills down to the level of a Mississippi SAT score.]

I'll try again.

My dad can now barely get around, even with a walker. He is very, very feeble. My mom and sister and I watch him struggle from the living room to the bedroom. One of us helps him hold onto his walker, and the other two watch him as though we are witnessing a murder. We cannot believe this is happening right in front of us.

When he and my mom are in their double recliner, they hold hands and she looks at him in a way that I am not talented enough to describe. But I can tell you that it slices me up.

We have to put him in a nursing home. Sometime in the next couple of weeks. There is heartbreak all around.

I couldn't decide whether or not to blog about this. But there is nothing else I can write about right now. I'm not completely sure I can write about this.

So be warned. If you come here regularly, Candy Rant may turn into something you would rather not read. It's OK. My only motive is to write to stay afloat. And to see if I can tell the hardest truths. A little at a time.