Almost three months into things, and the adrenaline has worn off. I am tired and scared and faced with changes to our income and every aspect of our lives, in addition to Pat’s challenges, changes and wellness. On any given day I am asked to consult and make major decisions that will impact my family forever without having any training or expertise or guidance. I am somehow expected to know. And I am scared. And overwhelmed. And exhausted. The support of friends and family and peer mentors can only take me so far. At the end of the day, all of these decisions—and their outcomes—somehow rest on my shoulders.
Today, I wanted to run.
Away.
Far.
I was about 7 blocks from the rehab hospital, and it was time to head back. I started walking—slowly. It was a hard walk. The real me was clinging to doorways and cars, and I kept having to pry her fingers off and drag her along. We made it a block.
I wanted to run.
So I ran.
But instead of running away, I ran toward toward the hospital. With my purse, and red boots, and plaid leggings. Around construction, across Broad Street, through protesters. I ran like my life depended on it. Which I guess it did. It does. It will.
No comments:
Post a Comment