We have a birthday function for the Birthday daughter tomorrow. I picked out some towels to embroider for her when I was out looking for my 5 ft chicken a few weeks ago. I had this brilliant idea that I would make her some towels.....His.....Hers.....Ours....the Ours towels would be one pink and one blue. Ours mentally started to look silly, so I figured I would put vintage baby animals on it to cuten them up. Here they are, but I am not the least bit thrilled with any of them if you want to know the truth about it....
You can move onto the next blog, if you don't want me to pull you down to my *funk*, but here's what's up....it WILL get better. :)
I'm like the child standing beside the sofa with his hands over his eyes, "Momma, you can't see me."
I walk down the hall and refuse to make eye contact with anyone. I am invisible. No one sees me. If no one sees me, I'm not really here. He's not really here. I make my way to his room. No longer is it me at the doctor with him convincing me the shot will only hurt for a second, but it is me convincing him that he has to let them draw a vial of blood out again today to keep an eye on his blood counts. He asks me when the wedding is. We talk more. He asks me when the wedding is. We talk more. I want him to look at me and tell me he is kidding, and that he knows we have already had this conversation two or three times already. But, he doesn't. He doesn't remember. I can't melt into a puddle of tears and let him hold me and tell me that it will all be OK. It is my turn to be the strong one and keep him excited about going home. He says it will be Wednesday. I know it will not. He gets his prosthesis Tuesday and is convinced he will walk Wednesday. I know he will not. He does not know he will not be allowed to drive. He talks about all the places he needs to go. I have to be tough. I cannot cry. But, I do. When I am done, I cry some more. I try to think about something else. It always goes back to him. I know he loves me. He knows I love him. We can get through this together. We will. We aren't alone. I know this to be a fact. My husband and my kids, they know. They help. My Mom is in denial. She is not a nurturer and believes in tough love. I fear for his going home to tough love rather than nurturing. He pretends he doesn't mind. We talk about it. There won't be nurses and aides running around catering to his every need. He still pretends he doesn't mind. I know he does. We talk to other families while I am visiting. Some friends are there because they, too, can't remember. I see it in his eyes. He knows. He is afraid. I still have to be strong. This week--I cannot. It is time to go. He asks me to stay longer. I cannot. I have to walk that hall again. No eye contact. Invisible only to myself. I get to the car. Tears.