Yesterday I spoke to my mom on the phone. She will be eighty years old next year. When I was four years old, she was widowed and left to raise five of us. The youngest was two and the oldest was fifteen. It was a challenging but colorful childhood with no father and a mom who struggled. What else was she to do? She cared enough to struggle. Anyway, had a heartwarming conversation with her yesterday. She expressed guilt over not having encouraged me more. She told me that my writing transported her to another place (and she is very immobile these days). She was impressed and felt sorry that she didn't really see whatever talent I had. I told her that I wouldn't have had my life any other way. I told her that I made my own choices and that I wanted to live a life before writing. And that is what I did. I love my mom.
Vacation Nevertheless
In April, we had planned a trip to Florida. For numerous reasons, including my recent diagnosis, we couldn't go. We had taken a trip there exactly one year prior. That trip was cut short as my mother had become very ill and entered hospice care in my home. But we recently rescheduled April's bamboozled travels. And, for the past several weeks, I have been very skillfully planning my execution of all that needed doing to pull it off this time. PSC makes a person tired. All. The. Time. But we got it all done, and we left the house at 4AM yesterday. I drove some of the way in the morning, but my husband did most of it. Thankfully. He and my son understand how I am and what this does to me. And they didn't complain about my falling asleep for much of the last leg of the drive. It looked like sleeping, but it felt like a cross between drunk, hungover, and dead. Other people with this disease know what I mean. We arrived at this beautiful little rental home last evening....