Settling In Gently by R.A.Davis

First, things are fine. Everyone is healthy and alive, and mid-pandemic, that is not something to take for granted.  Second, grief is an unfolding thing-- like a comically long devil's contract unspooling across the carpet-- you never signed it but are stuck with anyway, smeary black ink and a bloody handprint sealing the deal. And I'm mulling that over and want to chew on my thoughts, here, longform, in bloggerspace. It's a cliche that there are stages of grief. It's a given, a known, almost a punchline. In graphics describing the stages, they are as neat and orderly as a flow chart. First Denial that morphs into Anger, as you shake your fist at God. Then you beg and Bargain. But nothing changes-- God's face is impassive. You sink into the miserable, neverending reality of it in stage Depression, and then eventually you wash your face, and emerge bigger and better, sadder maybe, but wiser into the stage of Acceptance. Something about this tidy taxonomy makes me gri...

After Liko was born, I was in terrible pain. Sciatica, or something like it, made every step shoot sparks up and down my legs, up to my shoulders. I got a referral to go see a physical therapist. She told me that I didn't have sciatica, but rather I had an old injury, a bulged disc, that loosy-goosy pregnancy hormones had flared up. She was working with me, helping me stretch my back and build up supportive muscles over the next few weeks, when one day, when Liko was about 6 weeks old, I couldn't get out of bed. My knees had totally given out. Every step was agony, my knees felt like the bone was grinding on bone. My legs shook and I wanted to cry. Even lying down, if my leg bent the wrong way or anything brushed against my skin, I wanted to scream.  She said to just get into a painless position for 24 hours, and then come see her right away. Good thing tiny babies are happy to stay in bed all day and nurse anyway, and the big girls, 5 and 8, could fend for themselves a little,...

I vaguebooked yesterday that it was a hard day-- a day to just survive through. I tried to think of some pithy feel good silver lining to add to it-- "At least the sun is shining!" But it rang hollow. It was a -my feet are jelly-lead, my head is blinking batting, my hands weak- kind of a day. It's just bad. I cried uncle, I gave up on being productive or even functional today. I tapped out. Breakfast was toast and butter. Liko announced that toast with butter is her favorite food. Yesss, nailed it. My dad called-- we chatted about our gardens, the wild weeds we are eating and the berries we are planting, about my new bee hive and the arbotivae he sent me to grow my hedge along the back chainlink. He mentioned that the old Scottish detective show Hamish Macbeth was back on Amazon. Ah-- that's it. Hamish will get me through the day. Maile and I settled in. She was giddy that I was breaking my own "no screens before dinner" rule. And there's Hamish M...