Losing the Pilot

 We bought a car last night. Our trusty 2009 Honda Pilot clocked in at 263,243 miles when the dashboard lit up like a Christmas tree. Somewhere between getting the trade-in value and the new car smell of our latest purchase, I had a complete breakdown. The metaphor of something chockablock full of incredibly memories that can no longer function properly hit me like a Mack truck.

Alzheimer's for the caretakers is like death by a thousand papercuts. Loss doesn't come all at once, it comes inch my inch and bit by bit. I'm so very exhausted from all the goodbyes as my parents decline. Mom fell in the shower on Monday. On Tuesday, Dad couldn't cook spaghetti. Wednesday Mom had an accident trying to find a restroom. It. Never. End. I wasn't just a little envious watching my husband excitedly call his parents to tell them about our new car and all the support he received in turn. I have no one to call. In a way, I am an orphan. An orphan who's been charged with the orphanage, no less, which is on fire and flooding all at once. 

So all this let me to sobbing behind our old Pilot and feeling loss -again and saying goodbyes -again- and trying to tell myself eventually it will be ok -again-. And yes, greatballsoffireitsjustaCARforheavenssake!!! The logic is in my head but the heavy sadness weighs on my heart and spills out my eyes in an embarassing display of vulnerability and hopelessness. 

The new car will be great. Things won't always be like this. I have faith there is a light somewhere there at the end of the looong tunnel. 

But for now, I just need to cry.