Ever since I was a kid, I have worried about things too much. I am sure it’s a type of disorder, but I’m not sure of the name.
As a kid, I dreaded spelling tests. But I did alright on them because words made sense to me.
I dreaded being told to take out our math books. Those story problems were nice to read. I liked reading about Jim and Sally going to the store. It was nice knowing they had $2 to get milk and bananas. However the making change part sometimes threw me off. Their adventures were interesting, the money and numbers not so much.
I also dreaded penmanship. If you have ever witnessed my cursive you would know why.
I procrastinate often. But working at a newspaper makes you realize deadlines, and you have to learn to set your internal clock to get stuff done before the dreaded Tuesday rolls around.
So as I sit here, I am dreading walking to my mailbox. Not a long walk, I usually wave at the nice neighbors. I am filled with dread. I know I will end up in tears.
My oldest sister passed away. I adored her. She lived through Pearl Harbor, she was just a baby, and was there with my Dad and my Mom. My Dad was a sailor stationed in Hawaii.
She had a great life, a good husband, four wonderful children and four grandchildren plus two step grandchildren.
She was taken by Alzheimer’s. We lost the best of her slowly, but it started about four years ago.
My niece has sent me a box. It is filled with small things I wanted, if possible, of my sister’s. I asked for something in her handwriting plus a couple of things I had given her over the years. Small things only important to me and to her.
I am dreading that walk to the mailbox. I am dreading opening the box and touching those items. That act makes the loss part real and tangible. With this virus, her siblings didn’t go to the funeral. It was recorded for folks like us. So we watched and listened as her life story was told. Those telling’s are never enough.
So I will make the walk and open the box. It is one more stage in the process of grief.
I have dreaded things before, they seem so trivial now.
I miss you June.
Stages of grief and the art of dreading things