This post is a pressure valve. I’m releasing it today so I can get back to the work of rebuilding tomorrow. I’m sharing this not for sympathy, but for transparency—because we all have moments where the “teacher armor” gets a little too heavy. If you’re carrying your own version of this today, consider this your permission slip to let it out, too.
On Tuesday, Phred and I brought Mother back home for the summer. It was a decision made entirely out of necessity, though I’ll be the first to admit that “mixed feelings” is a gross understatement.
Back in college, in an Educational Psychology class, a professor told us something I dismissed at the time as touchy-feely nonsense. He said: “Feelings are.” No good, no bad, no positive, no negative. They just are. I’m holding onto those two words for dear life right now, because the range of emotions I’ve been navigating feels like a physical weight.
To be honest, we didn’t expect Mother to survive this long. When she moved into assisted living 18 months ago, she was in a bad way—COPD flares, the BiPAP mask, the constant threat of intubation. Even the staff seemed to treat her as if her time was short. I walked into that facility every day for a year and a half with the subconscious expectation that I was visiting someone at the end of their story.
When I was the last one standing in her empty apartment yesterday, clearing out her things, a dark thought hit me with the force of a physical blow: I thought Mother was going to die here. I had accepted that the day I emptied this room would be in the wake of her passing. Having her back in the house feels surreal—jarring, almost.
It’s impossible not to compare this to the “Old Man.” When he was dying of cancer 11 years ago, he came home for his very last days. He knew he wanted to be under his own roof one more time before the end. That memory is heavy on my mind, hovering over every move I make in the house this week.
To top it all off, I’m navigating a massive “kid hangover.” Having both boys here for a few days was a blast, but going from a full house to a sudden, rattling silence in under 48 hours is a shock to the system. Between the kids leaving and Mother arriving, my world has shifted entirely in the span of a few days.
I keep telling myself that Phred and I can handle this for three months, but if I’m honest, I don’t feel very confident today. It is difficult to watch Mother “exist” rather than “live.” I don’t say that because I wish her harm, but because it’s hard to watch the decline and wonder how much time—and how much of ourselves—we have left to give.
The valve is open, the steam is out, and now I’m tightening it back up. I’ve said what I needed to say, and now I’m back to the work. Tomorrow is a new day on this road beyond 1,000 days.
If you’re feeling overwhelmed, let this be your permission to vent, too. We’re all just doing the best we can.
Rebuilding a life takes grit, consistency, and a lot of ‘Option C’ thinking. Having crossed the 1,000-day milestone, I’m now charting the territory beyond. The mission remains the same: No glitz. Just the work. New to the blog? Start your journey here to see the blueprint and the ‘Tricorder’ perspective behind the rebuild.
Today’s post is inspired by the WordPress Daily Prompt. While I’ve taken the topic in my own direction for the Road beyond 1,000 Days, you can find more responses to today’s prompt HERE.
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The article “Pressure Valve: Existing vs. Living” first appeared in Rebuilding Rob.
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