When we were growing up, my sister and I would spend every other weekend at our Dad's house.
There are many ways in which my mom and dad are polar opposites, and the way they treated us when we were sick was one of them.
When we were sick at Mom's house, she would let us lay on the couch all day, fluff our pillows for us, cover us with cozy blankets, change the video in the VCR, bring us 7Up and saltine crackers.
It was nice to be sick at Mom's house.
At Dad's, on the other hand, he would wake us up and tell us to get dressed and put our shoes on, because we were going out. No sympathy, no time to think about how miserable you felt. Just get up and get movin'.
As I reflect upon the ebbs and flows of my seemingly neverending grief process, I find myself leaning toward preferring Dad's method at this point in time.
In this particular phase, I find that the more people fuss over me and tell me how miserable I must feel, the more miserable I actually feel.
My poor husband came home from work yesterday and saw that I was down in the dumps. In an act of service and concern for my well-being, he canceled his next work appointment so he could try to console me. Being the amiable and grateful wife that I am, instead of appreciating his selflessness, I got cross with him for making a big deal out of it. I just wanted to carry on as normal, one foot in front of the other.
Now, don't get me wrong. I genuinely appreciate the concern of others. But don't coddle me. Don't treat me like I'm about to break. It's far too late for that.
Just bend down and help me tie my shoes so I can get on with it.
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