Everything is terminal

I think this is an occupational hazard of hospice nursing.

Everything is terminal.

Add previously existing issues with depression/anxiety to a job that squarely faces the big ‘D’ every damned day, and it’s easy to see how I might arrive at my terminal state.

But how to fix it?

Years ago I slept as a means of escape.  And when I say I slept, I mean I slept.  Sometimes 12-15 hours a day.

The last few days I have that need to sleep.  I can’t look you in the eye.  I can’t really hear what you’re saying.  All I know is I want to be where it’s warm and safe and I don’t have to think.

I’ve been stumbling home after work, peeling off my clothes, and ducking into immediate, and deep, sleep.  I did it again this evening, sure that I was sick.  I woke up several hours later,  confusing incandescent light with sunlight, utterly convinced I’d missed a day, or maybe a week.

“What day is it?” I asked my boyfriend.

Quietly, so as not to upset him, I silently bumbled through a mini-mental status exam in my head.  Orientation?  Check.

I am being visited by my old friends, Mr. Fear and Dr. Dread.  My terminal condition is right around the corner.  I can feel it.

I want to find a cancer sniffing dog and let him go at it.  Find it.  Find what’s killing me.  I know it’s there.

I really hate living like this.  I live on the edge of despair most of the time.  It would be so easy to slip off the edge, and it takes all my energy to stay on solid ground and be “normal”.  I get so tired.

On a brighter note, I finished all the Xmas knitting.  All items were received reasonably well, so I am pleased.

I stopped at Yarn Boutique on the way to the hospital Friday, and picked up some rich purple Manos to make myself a feather and fan neck warmer.  I was craving something soft and comforting.

But knitting is not the same.  It’s hard to concentrate.

For someone who says she sleeps too much, what do you suppose I’m still doing up, at 2:07 AM?