So They Tell Me

I am a good liar. I know I am. I walk pass people everyday, who know I sleep here, and who know I am wearing yesterday's clothes and I answer them when they ask how I am. I lie and say, "I'm ok, how are you?" Because that is what you are supposed to do. You are supposed to look someone in the face smile and lie every morning because after a while people get desensitized to the tears.


I have given them all up - each of the seven deadly sins in my humbling repentance to save Jason.  Lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy, and pride - poof all gone. No where near me. I am as humble as JOB because I so desperately beg for mercy I don't dare hint at any of those things. Sometimes I am terrified that I have become prideful once again by playing the little game these doctors and nurses who look me in the face and ask me how I am play. I look them back in the face trying to hold a steady gaze, trying to hold a tight friendly smile and trying to give them back the enthusiasm they give me. I hold it in, and walk away and cry now. I don't do it in front of them.


Jason got a tracheostomy today. Look it up. It is too painful and too sorted to write out why I do everything I do. I know the details, and I know why and trust that every decision I ever make is to ensure my son gets the best he can get. It's reversible and it is for his own good. While it sounds like he is getting worse, this move is somehow making him better - at least this is what they tell me.


I just saw his face. His beautiful scraggly beard baby face. I have not been able to see it for the last two weeks because for the ventilator they had to muzzle him. This horrific disgusting muzzle with big brown patches on either cheek they secure to your face while your mother watches and fights the urge to jump across the bed and choke the shit out of the person from respiratory who is putting this on him emotionlessly. Now he has a face, and nothing in his mouth and he looks so much better and is allowed to feel better too. I thank God for every grace and every blessing, and forgive me for being greedy but I still stand in line to ask for more.


He also got a stomach Peg. He can start eating immediately and this too can be reversed. But for right now he has a direct line going into his stomach. I have been trying to function normally. Trying to be grateful and happy that things are going well. Trying to return the smile from the pretty doctor who is excited that he is in such great shape he can start chemo tomorrow. I am trying. This is all good news right? This is all things going in the right direction to get him better and over this. I should be excited about chemo.


He is laying there in bed  - with his complications, and his strides and his 'getting better" parts that get the medical team excited to proceed and his mother is just standing there not so excited, trying not to be so sad. Instead I am terrified? I am scared shit. He is entering unchartered territory and crossing the point of no return. There are no assurances - there is hope and God and miracles. I believe and I trust but I am human.


I am imperfect.
I am flawed.
I am terrified.