I awoke this morning to the fog and confusion of depression. I got into the kitchen and wasn’t sure what to do or where to start. My morning routine is so cramped and quick—take Lulu out to pee, bring her in, feed her, feed the cats complete with big kitty’s medicine, keep an eye to make sure everyone eats their own food, make coffee. Then, Lulu needs to go back out to poo and big kitty is already into small kitty’s food who is into the leavings of the dog’s food and then little kitty loses interest in the food and goes away, as does big kitty. Then I continue to make my breakfast and before I’m finished, like clockwork, little kitty is back screaming at me for dry food. So I have to shut her up so she can eat a teaspoon of dry food and feign indifference and while I finish my breakfast I have to make sure that Lulu doesn’t eat the dry cat food while I’m not looking. I know that doesn’t sound like a lot, and it really isn’t, but sometimes it’s all I can do to not kill small kitty. I’m getting to where I just hate the sight of her, which is so unfair and mean, but it’s driving me to distraction.
But the confusion. The foggy head. Things were getting better and then we took James to the doctor on Monday and found out that, yes, he has to have a defibrillator inserted and that is happening on the 27th. I have felt like stone and bricks, a little mud holding me together. I’ll lie and lie in the bed, then I’ll get up and do something. We went to dinner with Rick and Terri last night and I had a glass of wine and felt nothing, NOTHING. Perhaps wine will never delight me again. Perhaps the gig is up. But I refuse to believe that I will always feel this way. This has to go away. It has to. Pray for us now, Lord, and at this, our hour of need.