Stop the car, I want to get out

There should be rules laid out for the first year of widowhood, such as limiting the number of deaths one is supposed to cope with. Just as I was beginning to find my footing again, my mentor and biggest supporter passed away. I knew it was coming but we were having such fun planning the new venture, I sort of forgot Keith wasn’t going to be around forever. And today I lost an old fur covered friend, Brooklyn, who had been a part of my working life for over 12 years and bestie to my late Macgyver. I feel as if every time I almost reach the top of that mountain, a landslide pulls my feet from underneath me.

As I have mentioned before, I spend Sundays at home with the dogs. They don’t get walked as I believe that dogs as active as mine need a rest day. They know when Sundays come around and take great delight in sprawling across my bed or the floor around whilst I watch the news channel over breakfast on the remaining square inch of duvet space. Considering how excited they get every other morning at the prospect of an hour or so taking in all that the local park has to offer, it seems out of character to find them relishing down time. Arry, especially. Arry who spends six days a week between two speeds, park and turbo, yet stretches his whole body out alongside me with his head on my chest for the seventh. It’s funny how I feel the rest is necessary for my dogs.

I don’t think I’m alone as a widow in having an insane need to keep constantly busy although I do come from a family of grafters which has probably contributed to my frenetic work/no life balance. But this emotional see saw is starting to take it’s toll and I’m getting tired, bone deep exhausted. I’ve been driving at full speed for the last 11 months and the engine is failing, I need to park up and get out. The trouble is, I have no idea what to do if I stop but perhaps that’s the point. I won’t know until I do.

“All knowledge, the totality of all questions and all answers is contained in the dog” (Franz Kafka)