I told myself enough already but I can’t seem to or want to stop writing about sister number 3. It’s like an outlet for me, my mobile to talk to her, and about her.

Obviously, I miss my Sinnavan. I miss my daily phone calls with her. I miss her voice. I miss her laugh, which was almost like her signature opening line. She’d laugh before she’d say anything. And, she laughed easily. She was bubbly and ebullient.

She was the one person or rather the only person in my life who’d call to tell me she wanted to hear my voice. She always said to me she wanted to speak to me and hear my voice first thing before she started her day. How nice is that, and how sad is that now? She was expressively loving and caring.

Sad, I am. And, I don’t want to be. I’m tearful when I write about my Sinnavan. So, why do I do this to myself?

I think, in a way, writing might be therapeutic or cathartic or whatever. I don’t know. So… like I said, I told myself enough already, don’t write and make yourself sad. But I seem to want to write. So there.

I think of her all the time, well … almost all the time when I’m awake. At night, when I’m trying to go to sleep, images of her face and the fact that she’s no longer here surface. Sleep goes out the window. I don’t actually know when I drift off because she’s also the first conscious thought I have when I wake up. It’s tough.  

I’m not sure if the lack of sleep or general malaise, that not happy state of being, has caused my tinnitus to return with a vengeance. I kid you not, I first suffered it when my mum was unwell and it persisted, driving me around the bend, until after she passed.

It must have disappeared one day, and I hadn’t noticed until my husband asked me about it. Now, it’s back. My right ear has gone stir crazy. There’s nothing I can do about it but wait until it decides to leave again, whenever.

My stomach and haemorrhoids are playing up. I remember this occurring after my mum passed. Thinking and talking about my Sinnavan when I’m eating is not a good idea. I cannot swallow my food and I lose my appetite.

I also find it hard to concentrate. I enjoy non-fiction but I’ve been reading the same novel for more than three weeks now. My mind wanders. The interest is a little waning. It’s actually about four siblings who return to their family home or rather their grandparents’ home where they were brought up. They are there to have a holiday together and decide what to do with the high maintenance old house, filled with childhood memories. I know I need to get my focus in place to get to the end of the book, as if finding out what happens is important. It’s not really.

And, I’m puzzled with my current puzzle. For some reason, it seems difficult to do. I actually gave up on the one before, which I had started in April. My head is all over the place. I packed that up and started a new one, which is also puzzling me. Fair enough, I’m new to puzzling. I only did my first puzzle late last year. To-date, I’ve done four without too much difficulty. But now it seems not easy.

I’m sad for me. Because I no longer have sister number 3 in my life. I’ll never see her again. I’ll never speak to her again. That’s painfully sad. I miss her terribly. I know we saw each other once a year, but we spoke to each other every day. I miss the genuine love, the caring, and the special camaraderie I shared with her. No more updates about her or her life.

I’m sad for my Sinnavan. I cannot understand why she didn’t/hadn’t tried to have her operation earlier. I feel sad when I think of the pain she suffered. Not being able to eat and do much of anything, and still driving and visiting brother-in-law number 3 in the hospital every day. Why? Why do I ask these questions, and what for? Nothing’s going to change anything.

I also get angry. At people. At the many things that could’ve been done thoughtfully, better and quicker. At her, sometimes, but never for long. What good is that?

My emotions are all over the place. I don’t need any help to make me feel sad or sadder. I do a pretty good job at being sad. Which in all honesty, I don’t want to be. Sadness is not nice. It’s painful, hopeless, and draining.