Let’s not beat around the bush.
Frank’s ongoing health problems came to a head this week.
Plus point; he’s not deaf as previously though.
‘Wagon load of emotional turmoil piggy-backed onto increasingly meagre plus point’; he’s autistic.
I’m still at the stage of wading through terminology and more well-meaning (awful) advice than you can shake a shitty stick at – never mind beginning to process what this means for the future.
Testament to my mind’s capacity for avoidance however, rather than do something useful with my afternoon, I’ve written a poem.
It’s Prose for Thought today (and Baby Loss Awareness Week) so I’m shoving it out there – raw, unedited, in its experimental infancy because it just seemed appropriate.