It's been a good month. He's only had a handful of seizures so far, although there are some new concerns which may or may not develop into something more. Only time will tell.
It struck my heart this morning how, often, when he's having a "good" stretch, the heaviness of the past 12 long years comes crashing in like an emotional tsunami.
It's almost as though when things are desperate on a day-by-day basis, I don't have time to feel. All my energy is turned towards survival.
When the desperation lifts for a moment and I can breathe again, the numbness of survival lifts too, leaving my heart exposed and vulnerable to all those unprocessed emotions I didn't have time for while in the thick of it.
That crushing emotion is not translatable with words and so I'll find myself weeping intermittently, for no evident reason, until survival mode hits again. It's such a paradox. I should be rejoicing; we haven't seen a seizure since the 12th. Yet, my face is drenched and my heart a crumbled mess.
Sigh.
Sometimes disability looks like streams of held-back tears, broken strength, and a heart that sigh with every beat, "Even so come..."
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