He’s better than he was Saturday but I’m not entirely sure if he will be up for work tomorrow morning. All weekend was one big giant waiting game for the two of us. For him it was waiting to see if he had another panic attack; one so insurmountable that we would be heading towards the psychiatric hospital. For me it was waiting to see how he fared throughout the day. Some moments were better than others, laughing with people, being out and about but most of the time it was just the two of us in the house. Most of the time, I spent by his side, in case he needed me. It seemed to soothe and calm him a little. And while I was happy to help him my wanderlust (which doesn’t surface often) decided that it was time to surface.
So, I did what I could do. I took short breaks where I would stand on my porch and watch as the world went by. Mothers and fathers pushing strollers, leading children, up and down the street. The random lone person carrying a pizza box or groceries back to their house, apartment, or car. The teenager out for a bike ride. I watched. They went by. I went back up stairs to check on my husband.
Rinse and repeat for the entire weekend.
I did accomplish some things. I did mange to clean the first floor of my house. Mow the jungle of my backyard (not a metaphor), do some laundry. But it wasn’t the weekend I had in mind. I wanted to go to Fallingwater; go bed and couch shopping and work on the backyard. I did the backyard – as much as I could without help but the other two? Not so much.
It felt like a lost weekend. It actually wasn’t. It was a weekend. It just wasn’t the weekend that I imagined. Being a hermit was what my husband needed. We have time to work on what I needed.