IN THE IMMORTAL WORDS OF TENNESSEE ERNIE FORD...

Before my Dad passed, in those final hours before he slipped into a coma, he was happy and smiling and talking in a nonsensical manner about being at 'home' on the farm with his Mama. I didn't understand half of what he was saying, but I got the gist... his mind had traveled back to a place in time where he felt completely safe and protected.

My Mom experienced something similar during her recent hospitalization. It took several days before she remembered she no longer lived in Borger with my Daddy, and that her mother and sister had also passed.

“When did Paul die?" "Tell me about his last days.” 

“So, Mama isn't with us now?” 

“Are you sure my sister passed? It sure feels like she's here...”

It was a little bit heartbreaking. Part of me was jealous they were so alive in her heart and mind; the other part of me grieved each time we had to re-bury them.

It bothered my sweet brothers even more. I think it's because I understand crazy better than they do. Heck, I not only understand it, I plop down beside it and give it a hug.

I once had a hospital patient who was schizophrenic. He became paranoid of everybody coming in and out of his room and was growing increasingly agitated and verbally abusive. He was convinced that his oxygen bottle contained mind-altering drugs. When it came time for me to take him to therapy, he stopped at the door, ripped off his oxygen tubing, threw himself on the floor and refused to move. While the nurses scrambled to notify his doctors, I just shrugged my shoulders and told him that I didn't blame him for not wanting to exercise. “In fact”, I said to him, “I feel like taking a break, myself.” I plopped down beside him, leaned against the wall, closed my eyes and started humming. He scooted up and sat beside me. There we sat, in companionable peace, until the mean ol' doctor came and injected him with a buttload of sedatives.

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Let's face it, we're all just one oxygen bottle away from a meltdown.

I knew I was due for one. I could feel it coming on, between the sleep deprivation and the hormonal imbalances and the massive loads of caffeine and chocolate oatmeal cookies.

I felt it getting closer when I kicked the pile of dirty laundry as if it had real feelings and told it to get it's sh*t together.

Setting fire to a cinnamon roll in the microwave was almost the last straw, but not quite.

The Very.Last.Straw came after my son sent me this video and I hit 'play'...

Hearing the deep bass voice of  Tennessee Ernie Ford singing one of my Daddy's favorite songs sent me straight into a fit of ugly crying. That's when I knew we were really in trouble.

[And when I say 'we', I mean... Dickie.]

Poor Dickman.

Between hiding cheese balls from my Mom and worrying about the bowel habits of his Mom and degenerating joints and income tax deadlines and hot flashes and airplanes disappearing into freaking thin air, Dickie could see the writing on the wall.

He tried hard to rescue me, he really did.

“How can I help you? I can be you... just tell me what to do. If there were two of you, where would the other you be?

In bed, Dickie. If there were two of me, the other one would be in bed. Sound asleep.

Bless his heart.

And bless the rest of us foolish souls who try to take care of every single thing all by ourselves. Those of us who are so busy trying to keep our plates a'spinning that we forget it's impossible to juggle balls at the same dang time. Balls were beginning to drop all around me.

Yesterday, I took Mom to her beauty appointment and placed her into the capable hands of our dear friend, Martha. I was looking forward to an uninterrupted hour of serious errand running.  But true to form, nothing went according to plan. I found myself arguing with a medical clerk over Mom's cardiology records and shortly thereafer, shooting the bird at a pharmacy tech.

[Don't start lecturing me about flipping off the poor little pharm tech.  I know it's immature AND tacky. But I sat in line for TEN WHOLE MINUTES, y'all. Besides, my middle finger has  a mind of its own. In fact, there's a clinical term for my condition: Trigger Finger. Google it.]

So there I was, all pissed off with thirty minutes left before picking up Mom.  Clearly, someone was in need of  a timeout.

I did what any red-blooded middle-aged woman on the verge of a breakdown would do. I drove through Taco Villa  and ordered a meat (m-e-a-t) burrito and one crispy taco. Then I drove to Mom's apartment to eat my feelings.

I let myself into the too quiet apartment and slid down on the floor. I propped up against her pretty flowered couch, and began crunching away on my taco while counting all the ways I deserved to feel sorry for myself.

Then, I looked up and saw this face smiling back at me...

My Pretty Daddy.

I stared at his picture until my eyes filled with tears.  I wanted him here. I wanted him to come back and make everything okay.

But only for one brief, self-indulgent moment.

Because I could never want my Dad to be anywhere more than I want him to be in Heaven.

Besides, if I closed my eyes, it didn't take much to imagine him plopping down right beside me on the floor.

Sitting beside me in sweet companionable peace.

And I swear I  could hear his deep bass voice softly singing, "You will find a little talk with Jesus makes it right..."