The phone rang just now. Caller ID indicated that it was the memory care facility where my husband is living. I only returned from seeing him a few hours ago. It was a good visit, and he was doing well. What now?
With great trepidation, I reached for the phone, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. "It's Friday night," I thought, "It's either an emergency, or they've decided not to keep him. Again. Either way, please, no!" [For more about all the moves, see "The Right Place."]
But it wasn't anything like that. It was just a question about medication. What a relief! Yet here I am, traumatized and panicked. Again. I feel as though I'm standing on the edge of a precipice. My hands are shaking, my breathing is shallow and rapid, my heart is pounding, I'm in a cold sweat, and I'm about to cry. I tell myself to breathe in slowly, breathe out slowly, relax. But I can't.
It's hard to be calm when you're waiting for the other shoe to drop.
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