At the temple there is a poem called “Loss” carved into the stone. It has three words, but the poet has scratched them out. You cannot read loss, only feel it. ― Arthur Golden
I started last week with such high hopes. I had a great weekend with the kids, I was happy, content, and things seemed great. It ended with me sobbing in a pillow for 4 hours. Allow me to explain.
I mean, I had plans this week. So many plans. I was going to be very nerdy and have a “system” for working. And Monday went great. Even Tuesday went okay.
Then I went to Mia’s endocrinology appointment on Tuesday afternoon to talk about her thyroid. I was expecting easy. I was expecting that it would be like every other appointment. “Still looks good. We’ll keep monitoring!” …is what I thought they were going to say.
And then her doctor pointed out the massive increase in thyroid stimulating hormone in her body and that she would need to go on medication. For the rest of her life.
And BAM! I got hit with the Down syndrome bus. I hate that damn bus. The rest of her life.
I mean, it’s not a huge deal. It’s one pill and so far she’s just taking it. And then she’ll need monthly blood draws until they determine she’s on the correct dose.
But the rest of her life.
And while I was still lying on the pavement, the divorce bus came along.
I don’t normally talk about my divorce here on the blog. Mostly for the kids, but also because I’m still trying to figure out what “lesson” I’m supposed to take away from it. I just can’t seem to find one.
But I feel like I have to talk about this to spare other families from doing the same thing.
Divorce is loss. That’s what it is. Whether you wanted it or not. It’s loss. Painful, debilitating at times, excruciating loss. Loss of dreams, of future, of things you hoped would be. Loss.
I got my first letter, a written letter, asking for a gift back from my ex-husband’s family. Not a family heirloom or anything like that. A gift. Made for me. And I understand.
And I had already given it back. Over a year ago. Because I treasured it so much and what it meant that it broke my heart every day to keep it. Because it meant being a part of a family. And now I wasn’t.
That one hurt. A lot. If your family is ever in this situation, don’t do that.
And then I reached for the phone to call my mom. To talk through how I was feeling.
And I was run over by the Alzheimer’s bus … just waiting in the wings. Because she wouldn’t understand.
Loss. You guys, I had all of these plans for the week. And there were lots of good parts.
But these damn buses. All this loss.
This is the part of my blog where I look for the bright side, right? Because I think down-deep. That’s me. Under all the sarcasm and snarky-ness, is an optimist. I hide her pretty well. But I can’t help thinking, “That’s enough despair.”
Do you ever have a moment where you wish you could pause time for just a minute, rewind and play it back?
I was dropping the kids off for school on Friday, and it was raining, so it was a quick good bye before Fynn had to run into the school. He started running, I waved, “Bye, Fynn! Have a good day.” And he stopped, turned around, and ran back, and said, “I forgot my kiss!”
That’s enough despair. The kids came back early from their dad’s last night. We’re all still sitting here on Sunday morning in our pajamas and the sun is shining outside. The trees are budding and the grass is green.
I’ll never be able to step out of the way of these buses. I get it. Down syndrome, divorce, Alzheimer’s. I hope that over time, it just takes less time to get back up.