Ah, I see this post was written right after my dad fell (three years ago). It was about my anxiety… and also not… because Dad fell and that day, we couldn’t find mom.
And so began three years of waiting – although at that time, we thought it was simply living – and wading through what would be the GIFT of Dad’s final years.
Also, my anxiety. Oh yes, as always… my good friend, Ms. Anxiety.
Today, I won’t be using any links to lead you anywhere. I trust that you’ll allow me to ramble and if you see something you’d like to know more about, you’ll go searching on your own.
Today is special because although I had planned to write about this subject all along, someone (namely, my dad) threw a monkey wrench into the plans.
I’d planned to write about my hands. Why? Because they are the best barometer of where I am on the anxiety-o-meter. I thought about it as I drove into work this morning. I would tell you that I’ve bitten my fingernails for as long as I can remember. I would share about my friend Eileen, who said, after meeting me for the first time at a job interview, “You looked so put-together. And then I saw your fingernails.” She didn’t need to explain further. I understood. I was…
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