Back in the Air Force, we were introduced to a condition known as cognitive task saturation. Even though as pilots we figured we could do six things at once, and often seemed able to do just that, there were documented instances of pilots, or sometimes entire aircrews, reaching the point that there was too much going on at once. That moment brings with it the inability to handle even the most basic functions, as the old amygdala sorts the threats and tends to fixate on one in the cacophony of alarms and flashing lights, to the exclusion of other considerations like flying into the ground.
That's sort of been my week. Mom died six days ago now. In the interim, I've had a rather pathetic dust-up with my surviving biological parent, who true to form tried to make my mother's death all about him. When he didn't feel he was getting the attention he deserved, he turned up Fox News all the way as I entered the dark living room, and called me a "damned liberal" when I suggested I'd rather watch baseball. I left him alone for the remainder of the trip, choosing instead to bob around in the pool with Peg and a cocktail, telling stories with my stepmother.
The next morning we drove over to Hidden Springs, and walked into Mom's dark room, her mementoes all around. Bobby and Katie arrived shortly thereafter, with the task of gathering up Mom's things. Katie was a medicated zombie, even more so than usual. Bobby just seemed licked, with drooping posture and flat affect. He asked that I take care of whatever needed to be done about probate estates, memorial services, and cremation.
Peg and I flew back to Florida after about a half-hour of all that. Whoever controls the weather showed up a little grace, with blue skies from Texas all the way to Wyldswood. I had so much on my mind right then that I needed an easy sortie.
Back at the farm George and Beth were just leaving on their truck ride around the property to survey the cattle and see if Skeletor had given birth yet (she hadn't). I don't even remember what we did on Thursday night. Maybe the Elks Lodge? I was so tired, feeling so antisocial right about then. I think we cobbled together something at home.
Friday I worked all day in the home office while Peg mowed. Issac had flown down from Boston to survey some water damage to one of their condos after the roofers left a roof exposed. Thankfully the damage was almost nonexistent, but now he was stuck for the weekend in Ponte Vedra. Hey, why not fly over to the farm? I know your Mom would love to see you (so would I, but guys don't ever acknowledge that, do we?).
After an uneventful forty minute flight to St. Augustine, I stayed on the ground just long enough for Issac to hop in and receive a quick safety briefing. I was hoping to beat the weather that, out of nowhere it seemed (or is it cognitive saturation again?), came boiling south from above I-10 towards Perry around the time I was landing at KSGJ.
But we didn't make it, getting within maybe ten miles of KFPY when a wall of badness like something out of the Wizard of Oz rendered it black as night in the direction we needed to fly. No point in getting P mad at me by killing us both, so we diverted south to Cross City, where we waited out the storm and watched funnel clouds try to form to the southeast of the airport.
Finally the storm passed, and we had an uneventful night flight back to Perry-Foley. Issac's a sponge with regard to everything going on in a busy cockpit, asking lots of good questions about the displays, aerodynamics, etc.. It was a fun distraction to teach a little, just like the old days.
Saturday we were forced to relax by a steady drizzle and occasional downpour that thwarted P's work plans for the three of us. I checked in with Bobby and Katie, worked on cleaning up an obit and wallowed through more cremation paperwork even as we tried to pull together the package to buy a condo up on Canandaigua Lake. So it wasn't a complete day of rest.
Sunday we flew Issac back to St. Augustine, and had lunch at the British pub on the old King's Highway that now stands surrounded by thrown together subdivisions and strip malls. "Homes from the $300s" the sign proclaimed in front of a tight cluster of boxy houses built up against each other with no trees, painted in lovely pastel colors because it's Florida, after all.
We wrapped up our visit over lunch, and Issac dropped us off at the plane. I filed an IFR flight plan on my tablet, crawled back into the Columbia, and we took off under blue skies for Perry.
Maybe thirty seconds into the flight, Jax approach directed a left turn to 010 degrees, out over the Atlantic. I turned right, because that's what I was expecting and what I'd been instructed to do every time I departed there over the last twenty years. The controller was extremely perturbed as she directed me around a Skyhawk in my path, her midair collision warning blaring in the background over the radio.
Why in the hell did I do that? It's bothered me ever since. I have no explanation. I even repeated the instruction back to her. What's going on in my head that I can't focus enough to distinguish left from right?
I arrived home rattled, and turned on the TV to watch the Cubs thrash the Braves. The screen was, as always, crowded with graphs and data and baseball shorthand. I stared at it for a time, realizing I wasn't really processing the information on the screen. What did it all mean? That old Alzheimer's worry we all have at this age cropped up again.
After checking up on Bobby again, we drove over to the golf course for a little four iron therapy, only to find the sprinklers running at six in the evening. So much for that plan. The scene puzzled me, both because it renders the golf course unusable during the only time of day it's cool enough to play, and because watering grass just before sunset in Florida is a great way to develop all sorts of funguses and such that will kill the grass.
So instead of golf, we rode around for a while, stopping at Spring Warrior to snap a couple photos,
then on to Holton's Still (formerly the 27 Lounge) for nachos and a cocktail, and a visit with Stacey, the owner, his wife and stepdaughter about the changing Taylor County landscape. Peg's known Stacey for going on thirty years. Nice guy. Very, very country.
Mindful of my lack of mindfulness, I carefully flew us back to PC yesterday morning, and have been slogging through a week's neglected work ever since. As my income has mercifully remained reliable, commitments have mushroomed. So much to fund, to manage. It's my own fault, but I'll be at this until I die, whenever that might be. It'll always be something, and I'll always be writing checks.
Today I'll finish the obit, and try to deal with relatives who seem set to blow off Mom's funeral because of ancient grievances that have nothing to do with me, as near as I can tell. I haven't seen most of these folks in well over a decade, our family atomized all over the planet. Why did I think the family would pull together now? If the spade work's not been done, the Thanksgivings and family gatherings, during the good times, why did I think we'd start acting like a family with the death of an eldest sibling?
But then again, I reckon this is what it means to "act like a family".
I was puzzling last night about my own head, about struggling to focus on simple things, about turning the wrong way in the Columbia, about the utter anhedonia and constant undefined irritability that cloaks me lately. Peg seemed to nail it: "You have too much on your mind. Too many apps open." Or was it "too many tabs open." Or "too many windows." I can't remember now, but you get the point. I'm just dazed, and need to recognize that and take steps to make sure I don't screw something up while I'm not pitching my best game.
Speaking of which, those financial commitments aren't being met right this second. Time to start doing something for which I can charge.
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