I just typed out a long, whinging, rambling, self-pitying rant. And read it back, and it bored me reading it. So I have deleted it.
Suffice it to say,
I am tired.
Mog has finished the year more disabled, more fragile than she was last year.
Goldy has finished the year more dead than she was last year. I keep seeing little unexpected reminders of her. Not the photos, I'm used to them and I like them. Not the cards (which I must put into an album somewhen, somehow), but smaller things. - a hairband she used to wear, a piece of equipment she used to use A phrase which was one of her favourites, now being spoken by Little Fish. Speaking to people I don't see very often, and having to break the news all over again. Speaking to people offended because they weren't invited to the funeral. Speaking to people afraid to talk to me incase I mention her. Speaking to people who want me to mourn their way. Speaking to people who think I should be over it by now, and to other people who think I'll never get over it and seem to think any kind of normality is irreverent.
Little Fish has surgery in two weeks' time.
I am tired. And sad. And ache. And am going to bed.