I'm heading out to England today to join Pete in helping Aunt Margaret in any way we can and in being there to say our good-byes to Uncle Ken. I don't know how much I'll do in terms of support, but what I do matters little. It's that I go that matters a lot.
I don't do well separated from the kids. I had managed to stuff that anxiety of the separation deep within me. It finally came out last night, as I was saying my good-nights to each of them, spending time chatting with, first, Daughter and then Youngest and then Eldest. I ultimately slept with Youngest. Although "slept" hardly describes my night.
Saying "I don't do well separated from the kids" is putting it mildly. I sleep very little, eventually crying myself to sleep in the wee hours of the morning. I'm sick to my stomach much of the time. I can't focus. I can't do much of anything. How do I know this? Because I've gone away a few times before. Once for "pleasure" and twice for good, familial reasons.
I know, I know, how weird am I? And so I'm going again. And I know I'm doing the right thing. Only I'm in such a state that I keep coming up with scenarios under which I don't go. Which only lead to scenarios of what could happen while I'm gone. My mind is utterly effing with me. And sitting here typing this, I understand it's just my anxiety. But that doesn't stop me from crying and still having my mind whirl with freakin' bizarre thoughts.
I'm going. I know I'm going. I want to be there. For Pete. For Aunt Margaret. It is so the right thing to do. So I'm going. And I'm going in less than one hour.
Now, if only my mind would just shut the eff up.