It comes and it goes. Like the waves on the beach.
Last week I was pretty good. Earlier this week I was okay.
The last few days... well... it's hard.
I don't like February.
It's dark, cold, often dreary. 15 years ago on Tuesday, my world rocked when I went for the "routine" ultrasound. It was anything but routine.
Fourteen years ago you were admitted for your first "scary" pneumonia. You kick that in the butt! Once we were settled, I started asking how long they thought we'd be there and no one would answer. When we discharged six days later, everyone was astounded! That's when I was told that they had expected several weeks, if you managed to survive.
Then all week, Facebook has been reminding me of February 2022. Sepsis, DIC, neurostorming. Fragile enough to prompt a move to the middle of the ICU and your own one-to-one nurse for days on end. On February 6, 2022, you were given a priesthood blessing and this is what I wrote the next day:
Yesterday I had the chance to take the sacrament and then the Elders gave him a priesthood blessing. It was beautiful, and I have a hard time remembering what was said. He was blessed with strength, and his family too, and that his body would be strong. But I also got the impression at that time that this was going to be rough and long, and frankly, hard.
I had no idea how long or rough that stay was going to be. Or how much more you would be called on to endure over the next 22 months.
Or how my heart would break, shatter, when yours stopped.
And then Gramma. I wanted so badly to call her yesterday, to talk to her and hear her voice. It wasn't even anything "special" or significant.
February may have the shortest number of days, but in some ways, it is the longest month.
My heart hurts.
I toss on waves and they overwhelm me.
I know they will ease again; they always do.
But right now, right now, it just hurts.
Love,
Mama
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