Monday, September 12, 2011


I’m a stress eater.  Absolutely.  Always have been.  I understand this about myself.  Don’t admire it, but understand it.  Never understood those people who are stress non-eaters.  Accepted them, but never understood them.

Apparently I’m an ultra-stress non-eater, if you can imagine such a thing.  Looking at food, smelling food are tolerable, but actually doing more than picking it up and putting it back down again with maybe a nibble at most is beyond me in such situations.

I didn’t know this about myself until this past weekend when I brought my daughter up to be admitted into Children’s.  Needing to make the decision.  Making the decision.  Getting to a downtown building I haven’t been to in over a decade, in the dark.  Coming through the ER on a Saturday night.  Spending hours there just to get her a bed at 2 a.m.  Sleeping in the car in the parking lot because I was too -- tired? distraught? overwhelmed? -- to contemplate finding a hotel much less getting there.  Waiting for visiting hours.  Not yielding to her pleas to come home.  Being in the unknown for every aspect of her treatment and my daily living activities.  Arranging for school work to make it through.  Talking to doctors via email, on the phone.  Waiting.

Getting to a calm enough place to run an errand and get some lunch only to find my battery was dead and alternator running too low.  Getting towed.  Waiting for repairs.  Arranging for back-up to get to my daughter during visiting hours.  Walking away from her again.

I’ve learned quite a bit about myself.  I'm not a drinker.

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