35 Days

I had a shower today. Doesn’t sound super remarkable I know, but I had a shower today. I stood in there for a while, letting the water rain down on me. I didn’t think, plan, figure or do anything. I just stood there, eyes closed, shoulders slumped forward. As I cried, the water carried away my tears, the same way it was trying to wash away the fear, pain and sadness I’ve been carrying with me. I’m not even sure how much time passed because it seems as though I’ve lost all concept of days and hours.

I climbed out of the shower and stood in the foggy bathroom. It was quiet. My imagination goes haywire in the quiet. Probably why I’ve tried to keep moving. I dried and straightened my hair. Attempted meditation, but had trouble quieting my inner voice. I put the finishing touches on my vision board. Did some work. I suppose some might say it was kind of productive, but if I’m being honest, I feel like I was just going through the motions. 

35 days ago, I awoke at 545. I did my Morning ME Ritual, got myself ready for the day, got the kids up, ready and off to school and I drove to pick you up. You had an appointment and, like any good sidekick, I had dedicated my day to you. We were excited for this appointment because it was one step closer to your life going back to normal. When they wheeled you away, I had no idea that I would be leaving you there. No idea that you would endure 3 fairly major surgeries in the first 8 days. No freaking clue that we would be faced with major challenges, changes and more than a few setbacks. I certainly didn’t even consider that you would spend Christmas in the hospital and that 35 days later, I would be encouraged to take a day off to avoid eventual burnout. 

In 35 days, I have only had 2 days that I didn’t come to see you. In order to be able to function or attempt sleep, I need to see you. Hear you. I need to see for myself that you are ok. Second hand information doesn’t cut it for me because sidekicks should be in the know. They know all the things. I’m afraid that if I miss a day, you’ll get a new nurse that doesn’t quite understand your medical history. I’m scared that someone will do the wrong thing and you’ll get hurt. Again. While the logical part of me understands that you are so damn loved, my heart hurts at the thought of you feeling lonely. I know how loved you are and I know that your list of visitors is loooooooong. I love how loved you are.

Mostly I feel a crushing amount of guilt. I don’t love the idea of being anywhere doing anything when I know you’re not up to your standard shenanigans. I feel that guilt because I am outside those walls, living life, doing the daily things. And you are up there, waiting to see what “normal” will mean for you. Waiting on the next doctor, next nurse, next physio appointment. The next x-ray, next blood test. There are certainly no shortage of nexts at the moment. Each day brings a new next. We are in the in-between for now, between the old normal and unaware of what the new normal will resemble. Where will you be? How can I help? What can I possibly do to make this more comfortable/easier/better/more tolerable for you? My list of questions is long and there aren’t enough answers yet. That frustrates me. I thought that we’d know more by now, understand more. That we’d be working on the next steps plan. The truth is that this isn’t up to me. I need to breathe and trust. 

I had a shower today. For now, that’s enough.