I really should just go ahead and order a shirt that warns, Be Quiet. Be Nice. I’m on my Last Nerve. On the back it will say, Not held liable for what comes out of my mouth**.
Then, in true American litigative style, on the inside of the bottom hem where no one can see it: **Look, I am exhausted. Not just that newborn baby middle of the night I think my head and lungs are filled with cotton exhaustion but my dad is dying and I’m traveling back and forth to South Florida to see him and my mom and let me tell you how hard this is on my mom then I have three brothers and a whole host of wonderfully caring relatives and friends who want and deserve updates on my dad but damn some days the last thing I want to do is repeat how he’s doing this day or this week and no I don’t know how much time he has left it’s a cruel disease and no it’s not cancer because wouldn’t that be much easier to understand if it was because we could all just put a &^$%ing ribbon on it and feel better about ourselves kind of exhaustion. Also, I’m scared and sad and tired and just don’t give a rat’s ass about a lot of things that might, on a normal day seem important, like the stupid election, overdue library books, your job or the price of pre-chilled Chardonnay that I may or may not be buying at 9pm along with an overpriced pre-made eight hours ago sushi roll because I’ve had a shit of a day and I’m starving because I don’t have an appetite in daylight hours and my husband is out of town at a luxury resort while I’m in Florida doing the caregiver thing and not sleeping or eating so here ya go Nice Publix Lady; here’s my Amex I don’t care what it costs because my brain is cotton and did I mention I’m exhausted and on my very last nerve?
Further, I have one day at home between South Florida with the parentals and a stupid boring drive to South Indiana for my daughter’s grad school graduation which means I must do the Costco thing under extreme duress and did I mention exhaustion? Which, if it weren’t bad enough, was made worse…no, not worse, was made to be skull and soul crushing because the fire alarm went off and on and mostly ON and ON constantly. It is ear wax melting loud. It is so loud fellow shoppers were running their carts into end aisle displays and breaking open bottles of gin 40 yards before they reached check out. Isn’t there a giant fuse box to flip off this madness? Then I get to the check out and the 12 year old dude with the stupid one inch hole in his ear lobe picks up my daughter’s absolute most favorite only thing she insisted on please mommy can you get the Costco chocolate mouse sheet cake (with a cross on it because there weren’t any caps with tassels and I’m sorry honey this is the best I can do but at least it’s chocolate right?) and DROPS IT BACK INTO MY CART ON TOP OF THE SPARKLING WATER. Who the hell DROPS a chocolate mousse cake? Who the hell DROPS any grocery item instead of PLACING it back where it was? So behave and beware because I’m on my last nerve and not responsible for what I say.
“HEY! Be gentle with my cake!”, I snapped.
I never snap at check out people. I am nice. I really am.
But dude, you didn’t read the fine print.
5 thoughts on “Sandwich DuJour: Exhaustion & My Last Nerve”
Right there with ya, Karen. I’m so sorry to hear about your dad and will keep you all in my prayers.
Funny even in the darkest days. Hats off to you my friend. Hang in there. And eat the whole cake!
This evokes both laughter and sympathy–kind of like when it’s sunny out and raining at the same time. Sorry about your daddy. Had to read the part about the fire alarm to my daughter because she wanted to know why I was laughing so hard. I recently led a group of school-aged kids on a visit at an assisted living facility, and the alarm went off FOREVER and that was PAINT PEELING LOUD. Yes, some gin would have been lovely right about then…..
I’m holding my hand up as if to say….”I hear you and feel you”.
When I was having trouble with chemo my niece told me about the spoons story. Everyone has so many spoons given to them each day. I used the number 20 as a good day. When anyone asked me how I was I would just give them a spoon number. There are days I only had 3 spoons and I had to decide if I wanted to eat or shower because it took 6 spoons to do both. Using a spoon count saves words and possible death of the unexpected person who ask you at the wrong time “HA! HOW ARE YOU DOING WITH YOUR DAD’S DEATH?” Of course that person should face death asking you that question but death doesn’t cure stupidity. Just hang on to at least 2 spoons to remember what a great Daddy you have and what a great daughter your Daddy has in you. I”m there with you when every you need to scream at someone. I”ll scream too for my my Daddy.