Losing My Grip On My Wits
I think I'm losing my grip on my wits. This morning I broke another thermometer. Disgusted with myself - 2 in 2 days. This is wearing us out. Mustard packs, temps, fixing food and etc is sure getting me down. - Annette, December 1943
Annette spent most of December 1943 worrying about her second-born son, Deedee (real name Tom - my dad). Deedee was just over 1 year old and had just been diagnosed with malignant malaria. He was on a complicated treatment plan, including "acetalarsyn" (probably for malnutrition/anemia), atebrine and quinine (anti-malarial drugs), and "mustard packs" (mustard powder spread under bandages to stimulate healing).
(Spoiler alert - my dad survived. Since malaria stays in your body forever, he would continue to have flare-ups throughout his life. He was also known to enjoy gin and tonics, always using tonic water with quinine, which he probably considered preventative treatment for those malarial episodes. Totally my dad's sense of humor.)
Annette was worried sick. Breaking one thermometer would be upsetting enough, but when she broke the second one, she was 'disgusted' with herself and felt like she was losing her mind. A simple, easily forgivable accident triggered such strong words!
Just a few hours ago, while decorating my tiny Christmas tree, I broke one of my favorite childhood ornaments. My internal dialogue kicked in - "Oh come on! You can't even decorate a tree properly! How pathetic!" Why are we so hard on ourselves? We are all doing the best we can in this world - navigating obligations, expectations, and sometimes, malaria - and yet we still speak to ourselves more harshly than we would ever speak to others. How do we break the cycle?
Just for fun, here is a picture of Annette and my dad, Tom. He was a bit younger here, but it's still sweet.