I find that I don’t want to write much about the past week. Which is odd, for me, at least. Writing is how I process it, whatever it is. Writing is how I re-live things, it’s how I figure out how I feel about things, it’s how I make sense of the events.
I don’t want to re-live, I don’t want to figure out the worry and the fear and the pain, and I don’t see any way to make sense of it.
What I will do is cling to the prognosis that most kids recover completely. His optic nerves will probably regenerate, his eyes will eventually stop wandering around in the sockets and work the way they’re supposed to. He’ll probably be able to come off the meds, and regain his life again.
I quit my job today. Well, maybe not quit, I might be able to work a little bit from home, hopefully, but after the past two weeks, it’s clear that working out of the house for 32 hours is no longer an option. It’s clear that working out of the house on a regular basis is not an option. Sam needs round the clock care, from me. My girls need me, my husband needs me here. My family can’t function without a full time parent at home, for the moment. I hope it won’t always be like this – but it is for the foreseeable future.
This is the new normal. It’s noontime, and I’m writing with the dog curled up beside me. Sam is sleeping, and I’m grateful. Yesterday was a busy day for him, with a doctor’s appointment in Boston and then lunch on the way home. He can’t stand up for any length of time today. I’m caught up on laundry, for what it’s worth. My living room is clean. And I posted a blog post for the first time in almost three weeks.
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