Lately, Ty has had some rather rough mornings, and it's hard for me to watch it. Maybe, on some small, small scale, I can empathize with God; although I cannot begin to fathom a heart so strong, so big, so enduring as to silently observe the suffering of millions of His children.
I've been here on this street-at the corner of Hurting and Helplessness-before; so many times. So very many times. Yet I am never ready for the icy wave of depression that washes over me, hits me in the heart, and sucks the breath right out of me. These are the days when I wish I could just crawl into bed next to Ty, hold him, sing to him, run my fingers through his hair, and it would be enough-that it would...that it could fix everything.
My heart craves a a day off, but I am what keeps this place running where Ty is concerned (Mr. O takes care of everyone and everything else once he's home from work), and I guess it wouldn't be fair for me to have a day off from watching Ty hurt when he still has to go on actually hurting.
Just once it would be nice to be taking photos of him and his Homecoming date or cheering him on at a volleyball game or lecturing him about driving too fast through this neighborhood with so many little kids around or asking him for the hundredth time, I swear, to please, please just mow the damn lawn already.
Man, I love this kid, and I wouldn't change him for anything. But sometimes, I wish they made a pain killer for this.
Instead I am flow-charting meds and bowel/urine out-put; engineering less painful (for Ty's severe bone pain/muscle spasms, nausea) ways to single-handedly bathe and change bed sheets/briefs; staying on top of skin break-down issues; etc. And really those things are just the minutiae, the distractions, the busy work of the everyday.
The real difficulty lies in not losing myself. I get so lost in his hurting it becomes my hurting, and this is hard to explain, that I shut down. I don't want to see anyone, so I don't. It becomes all I can do to leave the house, so I don't. Mentally it's too much to even think about, let alone prepare, dinner, so I don't (I don't think any kids have actually died from cereal poisoning, have they? I'm just saying).
So I write, and I shower/wash my hair. Yes, even if I'm going to crawl right back into my yoga pants-because even if I die of despair, which I won't, I'll at least have clean hair and clean underwear-Yo, I'm ready to go. And sometimes I even eat chocolate chips right out of the bag and suck down 32 ozs. Dr. Pepper refills. Except I'm out.
Anybody want to grab me some? I can pay in clean underwear.
*all images by Spielberg and one by Michelle