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Not Much Time for Writing
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Not much time for writing or for anything else, for that matter. I leave home at 5:45 to go to work, then leave work to visit the VA.

It takes close to an hour to get to the VA, given all the traffic, twice as long as it takes when the traffic is light--it's only 19 miles each way. Then visit for an hour and a half to two hours, then drive home, another hour (occasionally longer).

Let's see...that gets me home about 8 or 8:30, which just gives me time to get a bite to eat (bought on the way home and I eat while I drive), brush my teeth, feed the cats, and fall into bed.

Not a bad schedule, just tiring (no time to just sit and relax). Hubby said that he was going to be two weeks more in the hospital, but he gets confused easily, and I think he meant two more days. At least on the weekend I can visit without having to put in a full work day as well.

It's really sad when I visit him. He needs to be turned over. He needs water. He needs more ice in his water. He needs to have his feet raised. He needs to be fed. Mostly what he really needs (the meta-message) is to be cared for, the way a child is cared for by his mother.

It's similar to what happens when I come home every day (his life starts), but much exacerbated by his weakened condition. It makes me very sad that I'm his whole life; he doesn't have other friends and interests. Just me and the television and the computer.

My mother had a similar set of expectations, as though waiting for life to start when I came in the door or called on the phone.

I guess I'm much more internally self-starting. Or maybe I'm responding to internal dialogue and externalization of values and interests. I don't sit and wait for the phone to ring (metaphorically speaking). Never have. I just get up and do stuff.

To me, there's something not right about just sitting and waiting for life to start.

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