I love those first few drowsy minutes when you’re waking up. You know, before you think real thoughts and can just be happy to see daylight and feel warmth.
Then reality sets in slowly, while all the pieces come into abstract, scary focus, and, like I have, with more intense feelings of dread every day, for the past two weeks, I think, “I cannot do one more day of this. I cannot face not being able to keep this from getting worse one more time. I cannot face whatever this worse will be. I can’t even manage to to keep the status quo. I can’t do this alone anymore. I need a village.”
I send out the same silent, desperate plea for help, for the clarity, understanding, wisdom and compassion I need to make these impossible decisions, for the patience that’s been gone for what seems like forever to be renewed, for even a little bit of the energy that’s been sapped to be replenished, for strength for me and for the kiddo, for the healing for which we’re so in need, for some relief of some kind for him and for me and for Prince Charming to show up in a white Lexus with a shoe that fits and a promise of happily ever after (or, you know, a decent guy with a good job and his own teeth and hair, or a nanny, or a Powerball win or a miraculous cure or some other straight-up Dickensian twist to this tale).
And then I find my smile, however real it isn’t, and wake my child and stare today’s reality in the face and hope that whatever it brings it won’t break me. I channel my inner Wonder Woman, and I get out of bed.