None of my sitters are available tomorrow so my visit with the psychiatrist has been postponed. Her first available appointment is the second week of September and we’re trying to coordinate a time. However, my primary care doctor responded to my email and I am going to see her on Tuesday. I’m not quire sure that she is the right person for me to see (should I be seeing my OB if this is peri-menopause/BCP/PPD related?) but I want to see someone as soon as I can.
For parts of the last few days I thought maybe things were turning around, maybe the cloudiness was lifting, maybe I was feeling more like myself. But, it was fleeting. Yesterday evening was particularly bad. My husband did (well, actually didn’t do) something that set me off and it was downward from there. I’m in a perpetual funk, gloomy, and uninspired and any one thing can turn me into Cujo. There is no joy in Mudville.
For many years (before my older son was born even, so more than 6), I’ve followed a number of blogs and now FB pages of mothers who have lost children (in utero, to still birth, with conditions incompatible with life, to accidents). I am amazed at their fortitude and their ability to celebrate the lives, sometimes mere minutes, of their children. I admire their ability to share their story amongst their profound sadness and grief. I am drawn to them because they are in such stark contrast to how my parents handled the death of my brother. All remnants of his life were immediately packed away, nary a picture of him hung in our house, no one dared to speak his name. I am in awe, then, of parents who choose a markedly different path to celebrate their child against insurmountable odds and often certain death. And, their stories are constant reminders to not take one minute of my time with my own kids for granted.
I’ve been moved by the life of young Corbin McHenry, whose mother dedicated a FB page to his condition and where she celebrated his fragile life. He was diagnosed with Trisomy 13, in utero, and was not expected to live through birth, but live he did. She chronicled his life daily, ups and downs, but always with such pride, hope, and love. And, she did so for 135 days, until he passed away this weekend. His death, much like Teresa’s (who I posted about here before), have hung on my heart. I think of their families and send comforting thoughts up and out.
“Water seeks it’s own level” so it comes as little surprise that I’m acutely aware of the pain and suffering around me. A high school class mate, who has been battling breast cancer for the last 15 years, has come to the point where she is opting out of continued treatment as she has run out of options. She is living as she also prepares to die. She is 47, a single mom to a college freshman. A friend of a friend’s husband died suddenly of a brain aneurysm two nights ago, leaving behind his grieving wife and infant daughter. A dear friend and mother of two children, ages 9 and 18 mos, is going through a divorce. Watching the dismantling of this family I love is heartbreaking.
Their stories are my company these days. I am, at once, grieving and grateful.