trudging

I haven't had anything different to say.

I'm alarmed by how casual and emotionless I can talk about my mom with acquaintances. More accurately, I'm alarmed by this coping mechanism.

Sleep is heavy and stress-inducing. I wake more exhausted than when I went to sleep. Mom is alive in my dreams, but never is she the same mom. In my dreams she is healthy but leaving us, or is she in remission but still living with the "this is why cancer is so horrific" tumor; she is alive, nonetheless.

We haven't yet broached the subject of if we should go through mom's belongings. I asked Dad if he would be okay with her stocking being hung. He said, "yes, but should we put something in it? Do we have something to put in it?" Without hesitation I replied, "No, it'll hang there alongside ours."

Maybe I should stick a plant coming out, or a pine cone, or I don't know what.

He tries tirelessly to be brave and strong for us. We, in turn, try to be patient with him. Each of us adapting to this hole.