And I even feel terrible about writing all this, and will probably feel
worse if I post it. Because I feel as if the only reason I'm putting
this out is to get attention and have people feel sorry for me and
manipulate some of them into sending me messages of sympathy and comfort
and concern. And I'm so lost and needy right now that it won't be
enough, so then I'll send out more, and the goodwill and kindness will
quickly be exhausted once people get tired of me writing post after post
like this one.

I'm exhausted from crying, and I still can't sleep.

Okay, I got all that out. Now back to the list.

No eating. No sleeping. I'm wracked with pain. I've tried making a list of
reasons for living, but I just keep coming back to the losses and
difficulties of the past twelve months, and start sobbing. My month-long
nervous collapse last May. My father's two hospitalizations in June. My
mother's illness and death. My father's excruciating pain from dealing
with deteriorating hips which needed replacing and which took months to
diagnose. Me being his sole caretaker, with next to no help from my
siblings; it's almost as if we don't exist to them. A flooded basement in
February, destroying most of what was down there, including the furnace.
Most of April struggling with viral pneumonia while still having to tend
to Dad. It never ends.

I look out in the backyard where Bijou, Simba and Christian sleep, all
having died too young. A half mile from my house is the cemetery where my
mother lies, along with her parents and her brother; she, too, died
too young. Every windy day and every chilly night I look out the
landscape, and grieve and cry all over again as the ground above them
turns weed-ridden with every sad day.

I've spent eight months watching my father, crippled and needing a walker,
as he slept in his recliner, where he's spent most of every day. I've
sensed the sorrows that show in his slumbering face, sorrows from the loss
of parents, grandparents, two siblings, and now a wife of 55 years.

Leo sleeps on my father's bed during the day. I wonder if he feels the
pain of the losses he's had to incur--being taken from his home and put in
a cage in a shelter, from which he was rescued only two days before he was
scheduled to be put down; coming to live here with my parents and I and
Bijou, who became his best friend, only to suffer Bijou's death a short
four months later; now the only pet in the home, and my mother no longer
here to feed him or pet him or sit up waiting for him to come home from
his nightly walks.

I adopted another cat a couple of weeks ago--a black 14-month-old tom
named Ralphie. A person couldn't have asked for a more affectionate cat. I
brought him home, thinking that Leo, who loved Bijou so much, would be
happy for the company. But he took one look at Ralphie and attacked him
over and over. I hadn't thought that Leo would have become inured to his
only-cat status so jealously that he wouldn't tolerate another cat in the
house any longer. I had to take Ralphie into a spare bedroom and shut him
in there, while Leo sat on the other side of the door, howling and clawing
the carpet to shreds. The next day I brought poor Ralphie back to the
no-kill shelter, feeling sick and frustrated and sad over how things
turned out. It still breaks my heart to think of it.

I look in the mirror and see the aging faces of both my parents. I visit
my father in rehab and think of how little time he must have left. I look
at Leo and begin mourning the day when he too will die too young and I'll
spend the rest of my life crying for him as well. I leaf through
photographs, see my parents smiling, and think of how great a
disappointment I must have been to them all these years. How they planned
for me to be a successful musician or writer or doctor, and how I fell
short at every pursuit, every attempt, until they finally, sadly, resigned
themselves to the fact that all their golden hopes for me would never come
to pass. I stare at old pictures of my mother, and can only think of her
watching me now, struggling and grieving and weeping for her loss.

I never had any idea how hard it would be for me to have her pass away. I
never even really imagined she would go so soon. My father was always the
one in ill health. In 1989 his cardiologist gave him a prognosis of five
years. I fully expected him to succumb first, and for Mom to live out her
years as a widow. For Dad to be the one left behind in sorrow and mourning
doesn't seem real.

The house is no longer a home. It's simply a place where my father and I
coexist right now. It's become unfamiliar, much larger and emptier than
either of us ever knew it. It's not just from knowing that Mom is gone;
it's from the knowledge that she's never coming back, ever again.

There's no living being done in the living room anymore. When I was a
child, the whole family gathered there night after night, day after day.
Later, with all of us grown up, it was where we congregated for family
reunions; the rest of the time it was my mother's place, while my father
spent his retirement in the den. It's no longer a room for living. It sits
unused, testifying to my mother's absence.

I feel helpless without her right now. I'm 47, and all I have to show for
my life is a destroyed marriage, no children, ruined opportunities,
wrecked relationships and a string of failed jobs. My mother never lived
to see me succeed in making a life for myself. I doubt my father will,
either. And when he's gone, then there really will be nothing for me.

I've applied for forty jobs in the past year, with no luck. The effort
with nothing to show for it has worn me out; the whole enterprise now
seems futile.

Right now Leo is the only thing that brings warmth to this house. I watch
him sleeping cozily, and I'm grateful for him. Yet I can't help thinking
that one day he, too, will be gone.

I miss my mother so much. I wish she could be here again just for a
moment, so I could ask her forgiveness. Almost all I can think of anymore
is how disappointed she must still be in me.

This is how I've been feeling. I'm sorry, but it is. And I still can't
sleep, and I still can't eat, and I still can't stop crying, and my whole
body still hurts.

And I even feel terrible about writing all this, and will probably feel
worse if I post it. Because I feel as if the only reason I'm putting this
out is to get attention and have people feel sorry for me and manipulate
some of them into sending me messages of sympathy and comfort and concern.
And I'm so lost and needy right now that it won't be enough, so then I'll
send out more, and the goodwill and kindness will quickly be exhausted
once people get tired of me writing post after post like this one.

I'm exhausted from crying, and I still can't sleep.

Okay, I got all that out. Now back to the list.

No eating. No sleeping. I'm wracked with pain. I've tried making a list
of reasons for living, but I just keep coming back to the losses and
difficulties of the past twelve months, and start sobbing. My month-long
nervous collapse last May. My father's two hospitalizations in June. My
mother's illness and death. My father's excruciating pain from dealing
with deteriorating hips which needed replacing and which took months to
diagnose. Me being his sole caretaker, with next to no help from my
siblings; it's almost as if we don't exist to them. A flooded basement
in February, destroying most of what was down there, including the
furnace. Most of April struggling with viral pneumonia while still
having to tend to Dad. It never ends.

I look out in the backyard where Bijou, Simba and Christian sleep, all
having died too young. A half mile from my house is the cemetery where
my mother lies, along with her parents and her brother; she, too, died
too young. Every windy day and every chilly night I look out the
landscape, and grieve and cry all over again as the ground above them
turns weed-ridden with every sad day.

I've spent eight months watching my father, crippled and needing a
walker, as he slept in his recliner, where he's spent most of every day.
I've sensed the sorrows that show in his slumbering face, sorrows from
the loss of parents, grandparents, two siblings, and now a wife of 55
years.

Leo sleeps on my father's bed during the day. I wonder if he feels the
pain of the losses he's had to incur--being taken from his home and put
in a cage in a shelter, from which he was rescued only two days before
he was scheduled to be put down; coming to live here with my parents and
I and Bijou, who became his best friend, only to suffer Bijou's death a
short four months later; now the only pet in the home, and my mother no
longer here to feed him or pet him or sit up waiting for him to come
home from his nightly walks.

I adopted another cat a couple of weeks ago--a black 14-month-old tom
named Ralphie. A person couldn't have asked for a more affectionate cat.
I brought him home, thinking that Leo, who loved Bijou so much, would be
happy for the company. But he took one look at Ralphie and attacked him
over and over. I hadn't thought that Leo would have become inured to his
only-cat status so jealously that he wouldn't tolerate another cat in
the house any longer. I had to take Ralphie into a spare bedroom and
shut him in there, while Leo sat on the other side of the door, howling
and clawing the carpet to shreds. The next day I brought poor Ralphie
back to the no-kill shelter, feeling sick and frustrated and sad over
how things turned out. It still breaks my heart to think of it.

I look in the mirror and see the aging faces of both my parents. I visit
my father in rehab and think of how little time he must have left. I
look at Leo and begin mourning the day when he too will die too young
and I'll spend the rest of my life crying for him as well. I leaf
through photographs, see my parents smiling, and think of how great a
disappointment I must have been to them all these years. How they
planned for me to be a successful musician or writer or doctor, and how
I fell short at every pursuit, every attempt, until they finally, sadly,
resigned themselves to the fact that all their golden hopes for me would
never come to pass. I stare at old pictures of my mother, and can only
think of her watching me now, struggling and grieving and weeping for
her loss.

I never had any idea how hard it would be for me to have her pass away.
I never even really imagined she would go so soon. My father was always
the one in ill health. In 1989 his cardiologist gave him a prognosis of
five years. I fully expected him to succumb first, and for Mom to live
out her years as a widow. For Dad to be the one left behind in sorrow
and mourning doesn't seem real.

The house is no longer a home. It's simply a place where my father and I
coexist right now. It's become unfamiliar, much larger and emptier than
either of us ever knew it. It's not just from knowing that Mom is gone;
it's from the knowledge that she's never coming back, ever again.

There's no living being done in the living room anymore. When I was a
child, the whole family gathered there night after night, day after day.
Later, with all of us grown up, it was where we congregated for family
reunions; the rest of the time it was my mother's place, while my father
spent his retirement in the den. It's no longer a room for living. It
sits unused, testifying to my mother's absence.

I feel helpless without her right now. I'm 47, and all I have to show
for my life is a destroyed marriage, no children, ruined opportunities,
wrecked relationships and a string of failed jobs. My mother never lived
to see me succeed in making a life for myself. I doubt my father will,
either. And when he's gone, then there really will be nothing for me.

I've applied for forty jobs in the past year, with no luck. The effort
with nothing to show for it has worn me out; the whole enterprise now
seems futile.

Right now Leo is the only thing that brings warmth to this house. I
watch him sleeping cozily, and I'm grateful for him. Yet I can't help
thinking that one day he, too, will be gone.

I miss my mother so much. I wish she could be here again just for a
moment, so I could ask her forgiveness. Almost all I can think of
anymore is how disappointed she must still be in me.

This is how I've been feeling. I'm sorry, but it is. And I still can't
sleep, and I still can't eat, and I still can't stop crying, and my
whole body still hurts.

And I even feel terrible about writing all this, and will probably feel
worse if I post it. Because I feel as if the only reason I'm putting
this out is to get attention and have people feel sorry for me and
manipulate some of them into sending me messages of sympathy and comfort
and concern. And I'm so lost and needy right now that it won't be
enough, so then I'll send out more, and the goodwill and kindness will
quickly be exhausted once people get tired of me writing post after post
like this one.

I'm exhausted from crying, and I still can't sleep.

Okay, I got all that out. Now back to the list.