I know--I’m usually a fount of holiday Deep Thoughts but this year, I’ve kept a low profile because I hate being a buzzkill and that’s about all I’m capable of at the moment. My father’s health is tenuous and nearly necessitated a mad dash to NYC on Christmas day. I got a ticket and spent a couple of hours packing inefficiently between crying spells before my brother called back and said that the immediate crisis had passed and I could postpone. So I changed my ticket to New Year’s Day and spent the rest of the holiday weekend in an anxious funk. I’m still in it and there’s no way out, really. I’m walking around in a perpetual state of near tears.

Movies are good escape, although Rachel Gets Married was not the best choice. Slumdog Millionaire worked well. I highly recommend both movies, but save Rachel for a day you’re feeling sturdy.

And I’m trying to stay busy. The kind of pain I’m in is non-negotiable in its inevitability. All you can do is acknowledge it and ride it out. It comes in waves—like nausea—and you grit your teeth until it subsides a little and then continue what you were doing.

Dad is 90 years old and ill. Man, woman, birth, death, infinity.

Labels: memoir, the meaning of life