Resting

So, I spent a few weeks at my parents’ house in the UP. It wasn’t a visit as much as it was a frantic, desperate effort not to check myself into the local psychiatric unit.

Life has been an enormous, non-stop transition for many years, and let’s just say it’s a little overwhelming. Yeah, just a little. 

I found some rest after Al passed away. There was incredible relief that he was finally finished with his earthly struggle, and that I was finished with the most difficult and painful thing I'd ever done in my life. When he was close to death, I pleaded with God to take him quickly because I wanted him to be released from his crippled body and because I was spent.

No, spent is too anemic. 

I was crushed.

Burned out. For the 289th time.

I didn’t know I could reach burnout and then still keep going. But I did. I had no choice. I had nothing left, but I kept giving anyway because I wanted Al to die at home, surrounded by family and holding my hand.

After the funeral, I found a comfortable rhythm in writing and doing household chores in the morning. In the afternoon, I would retire to my room and spend as much time as I needed to mourn the loss of my love. I spent several hours each day crying, talking to God, to Al, and sometimes, begging God to remove all the pain. I found that routine helped me a lot.

However, as we approached Christmas, things went downhill quickly for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was the fact that it was our first Christmas without Al and our fifth one without Joy. I had an incredibly hard time bouncing back after the holidays. In fact, rather than reclaiming the peace I felt after Al’s suffering was over, my mental and emotional health declined quickly, to the point that I almost walked into the ER. But I knew I'd just end up at the local psychiatric unit, and I’ve heard horror stories. I just needed to get away from all the reminders, all the responsibility, and all the trauma. But I didn't necessarily need treatment.

I’ve been seeing my current therapist for close to a year, meaning she was with me while Al was dying. She has keen insight into my life, probably more than anyone else who walked through Al’s last days with me. Of course, my children saw me, but my therapist saw me. 

At our first appointment in 2025, she saw a wildly distressed, crazy-eyed woman who couldn’t stop crying. She immediately understood my extreme need for rest of a kind that couldn’t be achieved in my own bed.

In the room where he died.

She didn’t think I was ready for the psych ward, but we both agreed that I needed to rest in a place where someone was taking care of me.

It was a combined effort to get me to my parents’ house. My son and I share a vehicle, and he needs it for work and school, but I also feared that, even though I’ve made the drive countless times, I might end up in a ditch. Or I could totally see my weary brain taking an exit to use the bathroom and then continuing on for 87 miles in the wrong direction.

So I told my kids they needed to get me to Grandma’s house or mama was goin’ to the looney bin.

The trip to my parents’ house was about an extended period of rest, healing, and beginning to process years of boxed-up trauma. It was about being in a place where I didn’t have to worry about the logistics of living. At my parents' house, supper is always planned, laundry is always done, and the house is always clean. Not that I wanted to take advantage of them, but their home is just like that. 

All the time.

Can you imagine?

Anyway, I needed to be in a place where people loved me unconditionally. And kept the home fires burning. I still had a little money left from donations that people had sent (Thank you!) and was able to make sure my bills were paid through the end of February.

At Mom and Dad’s house, I finally found a place where I literally didn’t have to worry about anything, and I could just rest while someone else kept the world turning. Their home became the protective shell I needed while I fell apart and put myself back together.

After three weeks of resting and restoring my physical and emotional health, I felt more capable of stepping back into my life. I even felt - if you can believe it - a little bit of energy, a little mental clarity, and a little bit of courage. 

An added bonus was that a dear friend picked me up at the bridge on the return trip and drove me home. The ride provided a glimpse back into reality and normalcy. I was surprised to find that I could laugh, sing, and enjoy life a little, even though my husband was gone. 

I still have a mountain of responsibility facing me. Honestly, it’s terrifying, which is why I need the aforementioned courage. My health is still a mess. For several years, my rheumatoid arthritis went incorrectly diagnosed and untreated; the result is that I already have joint erosion, chronic pain, swelling, and stiffness. I’m blessed to have my monthly mortgage payment covered for now, but the future is unclear. I’m trying to start writing and posting consistently, in addition to applying for freelance jobs. But that scary reality is that I can’t just walk into a full-time job and start working. 

But here’s the thing: I’m finally starting to put some building blocks in place to construct my new life. 

I’m smart, I'm strong, and I'm capable, but I have a long way to go.

Even though it will take time, I have what it takes to be successful. 

I’m Jen Yarrington, damn it! 

I can do this.

But I'm still scared