Last night and this morning, I found myself bound by this strange inertia. I had so much to do, and although busy-ness sounded attractive and even therapeutic, I had a lot of trouble making myself do anything beyond sitting in a miserable lump, wrapped around a box of Kleenex.
And then I realized my mind had devised this morbid sort of game: If I didn't pack, I couldn't get on the plane. If I didn't make his get-better/birthday quilt, I would have nothing to bring him. If I didn't go to sleep, morning would never come. If none of these things happen, my grief-addled brain whispered desperately, he will not die. Except I am here at the airport with a fully packed bag that includes a few squares of his quilt, and today has stubbornly arrived.
And he will die. No matter what I do or don't do. He will die.