When the Only Way Out Is Through

...or, as one of my favorite depressive functional alcoholics put it, “When you’re going through hell, keep going.” A recap of a long week and the (we hope) longer game ahead:

The one thing that kept me going throughout this week was the Friday evening date my wife and I had scheduled at our favorite restaurant. The Mountain View was closed the day of my wife’s birthday on Monday, I’d committed to some things outside the house on Wednesdays and Thursdays, so Friday would be the day we properly celebrated.

Given the expenses of the Christmas season and our limited cash flow, we’d been unable to make our once-weekly appearance at our favorite eatery for a while, so this had to happen. Dealing with our failing elder cat, and realizing we’d be dealing with more failing elder cats later on top of own failing elder selves, even as our grown son talks about moving not just from the house (where we prefer having him; it’s good having a professional handyman around), but from the San Luis Valley where the opportunities more closely match his considerable skill sets...all this change, worse, all this going away, was very hard on the spirit, to say the least. 

These are more than transitions we’re dealing with. They’re departures. Finales. Endings. And even sitting in the restaurant last night, smiling for the Valentine’s decor everywhere, I reflected that the owners of this most excellent establishment were getting on in years, too. How long would it be until they had to give it up to new management? It would, of course, never be the same.

And the obvious answers are stick around and find out; you know it’ll be sooner than you’d like. Just get there and enjoy it while you can.

Still, it’s difficult to maintain good cheer when all you’ve got to look forward to is one thing after another winding down into oblivion.

Sunsets are pretty. Until it’s dark.

My wife was astonished when I told her happy birthday. I had to remind her this was why we were at the Mountain View in the first place. Monday already felt like a month ago to her and I knew exactly what she meant. I hesitated to bring up, as I’m prone to do, that Christmas Eve was exactly one month ago. And imagine how far away New Year’s Day seems already! January can really mess with your sense of time. 

Things are so much different than when we moved here three and a half years ago, and much of it is for the better. I think of when I was on a Facebook page for a school I went to over forty years ago, and leaving because it was so depressing seeing how many of these people I knew from the 1970s hadn’t changed. Not even a little bit. I’m not even the same person I was three and a half years ago, and I thank God for that.

Things have to change. People and cats grow old. There is nothing else to do but press on and take comfort in the slowly lengthening, oh-so-slowly warming days. Meanwhile, we take care of ourselves so we can take care of those depending on us. That is all.

Otis on the bed upstairs with Jack and Puff, 25 January 2019, exactly one year ago as of this writing. What a difference a year makes.