My husband and I are staying at my Dad’s place during this marathon of unpleasant experiences.  It’s not the most romantical of settings.  I had insisted to my husband to just stay home and that I was just fine being here at Dad’s by myself, but he ignored me and came anyway.  Good thing.  I can allow this man’s eccentricities to entertain me, and I can feel at home in his presence.  On his way back to Dad’s place a few days ago, he went into record-hunting mode—that’s his latest obsession since his dad bought him a turntable for Father’s Day—and found a store that sells vinyl in some small town en route to my childhood home and distracted himself there for awhile, reliving his own particular childhood.  Today, he found another record store, and we both went, and I got some used Donna Summers and some Pink Floyd.  I think he got an Ozzy record.  He chastised himself several hours later, when I told him to grab Loretta Lynn if he ever sees her records, because he had been looking at a copy of Coal Miner’s Daughter and didn’t buy it.  He was getting real hard on himself, and that made me laugh—the absurdity of it all.  The very least of either of our worries is why my husband didn’t grab the Loretta Lynn record before I had even told him I wanted one.  He has a handful of oddities and work-arounds.  Those are the some of his most fascinating features.  And he’s HERE, supporting me through another parent crisis.  No one voluntary spends time in a nursing home unless it’s absolutely necessary, and I believe he thinks it is, which means that he thinks family is worthy of any sacrifice.  And if he believes that, then he is really on to something.  Why deprive ourselves, then, of some small pleasures along Misery Road, like buying an Ozzy record?  Seems a decent way to stay sane, right? 

I, myself, took advantage of a discount warehouse and refreshed my active workout gear.  Bargains are intoxicating.  A Donna Summers record for $3 and a North Face sweatshirt  for ten?  I’d call that a good day in the realm of disbelief and avoidance.  I forget what my husband asked me, but it had something to do with my holding up or self-care or something.  Without a second thought, I declared that I was simply on auto-pilot.  I realize that I am not allowing all of my emotions to reveal themselves right now.  I can shut some down when I need to, and I don’t want anyone who can’t do that invading my space or coming to visit Dad.  We are the adults now, in this situation.  We are the parents.  We can’t afford to break down and lose our shit in public.   Sometimes I think the sanest and sharpest I’ve even been has been during times of crisis.