Conventional wisdom holds that keeping busy is helpful for those mourning a death. Sticking to our routines and meeting our obligations is supposed to take our minds off our sorrow by not allowing us to "brood over it".

There are very many very colorful and descriptive words I could use right now, to tell how I feel about this.

"Hogwash" will have to suffice.

For the past six days, I have been "keeping busy". Not because I choose to. Not because I think it'll help. But because I have no choice. None. The one person I might call upon to help is the one person who is grieving along with me. My dad.

I'm exhausted and ill and brain-fogged, stumbling around like a drunk. Staring into space like a zombie. I desperately want to crawl into bed, tell everyone to fend for themselves, and sleep for a year, maybe more.

At this moment, I might even settle for a few hours' nap, so long as it is somewhere, anywhere, than this damned, damned hospital.