My internal exile here at the house continues, while Mary and her siblings continue to sit with her mom up in Westchester. The plan is to move her home from the White Plains to hospice at the Osborne, where she spent many decades as a social worker and then managing the social work team, and then resisted moving for a while because -- beyond the generic resistance to giving up the house where she raised her kids and had a lifetime of memories -- she also had a lifetime of memories at the Osborne, and they were work memories! But when she got back there, it was as a beloved returning heroine.
I had planned to spend today much as I had spent the last couple of days, reading my book, watching an episode of Michael Galinsky and Suki Hawley's "Bananaland" (good fun), perhaps napping. But somewhere in there I just decided to do a few hours of work. And I thereby moved from the anxiety of not working to the equilibrium of being at the helm of my little ship of commerce. Mind you, it offers zero control of the ocean on which it sails, which is rather stormy just now, but it turned out to be better than trying to ignore it.
I even drank a little coffee, which I had been studiously avoiding since my COVID onset. This, unsurprisingly, perked me up a little.
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