Pain and its methods

After the great, body-shaking, stomach-shattering grief of diagnosis, you kick into high gear.  I'm designated '4 of 5' - the second youngest sibling.  But I've kicked into high gear, organising the care rota (that my sister can't seem to stick to), kicking backsides to make sure the wreck of a house is shipshape, making a system for ensuring the four of us currently in this country pass on relevant information to each other to ensure the best care for mum.  

It wears you out, for sure.  It's a pain-numbing process, action over anger/fear/pain is an equation that will never quite add up. But it's the right thing to do.  Keep calm, carry on; fall apart later.

And yes, that is fine in theory.  I can hold myself together while my most important lady sees out her days in peace.  I can do it for her.  But understandably, the pain seeps out slowly somewhere, like a pus-filled wound.

I'm unable to think quite clearly.  I get angry.  I'm distracting myself with randomness, I'm avoiding the obvious addictions like alcohol (unlike, once again, my sister) and drugs, but cigarettes and sex are cravings that I can't quell.  I've become attention-seeking, and get irrationally upset when I don't get that attention.

Still, I think, overall, the bottle it up but drip-drip it out method is best; I'm lucky to have some wonderful supporters, who can spare me a few minutes each day to let me rant or moan, then move on to keeping positive.

But ultimately, I'm sat here waiting for the lady I love most in the world to leave me.  I don't want her to be in pain.  But the end of hers is only the flood barrier opening on mine.