Mornings were the beginning of my living hell. Eventually I was sleeping. And I really didn’t want to wake up. I had a routine of taking my medication when the first light woke me, it would make me groggy enough to delay having to face the day. But eventually I had to face the fact that it was still there. Absolute dread and panic. Getting up and dressed was shear willpower. I wore the same black yoga pants, and actually put on make up and fixed my hair. I had this distant hope that if I did get better then I should probably take care of myself. By the time I came out of my room it was well after 11:00. Instead of being the mama caring for my children, they took care of me. I wish I could have made their breakfast, frothed some hot chocolate, added a special touch to their lunches, but I just couldn’t. I was surviving.
John was finally able to go to work after many mornings where I wouldn’t let him leave. I would cling to him in a paralyzed panic. Literally begging him not to leave me. Thankfully he worked 7 miles away and had begun a small start up that allowed him the flexibility to care for his sick wife. It wasn’t easy, but had he been in other positions I don’t know what we would have done. My condition demanded so much from him. And he never backed away. Never made me feel like I was a burden. Never said, “just get over it”. I’ll discuss his role in more detail in another post. But for now, suffice to say at this point John was long gone by the time my morning began.
The kids and I would gather for a morning devotional. Usually we had a book we were reading, a chapter in the bible. I held on to the words hoping they would knock against something in my brain that would set things right. I wanted this time to last as long as possible, to fill the time. The days passed like a prisoner carving lines on cell walls to mark time. I wondered when my release date would be. These devotionals were place setters. Knowing what was going to happen helped me. Endless unfilled time was torture. It helped me to know what was next throughout the day. At the time I had four at home. Two daughters, 9 and 16 and two sons, 14 and 20. It still pains me to think of what I put them through. They were there with me and for me. By the grace of God, we became a team. Although I had no appetite, ever, I was good at eating three meals a day. I had lost so much weight that I stopped looking at a scale at one point. I was dropping down to pre-babies weight. I knew I had to eat so I forced myself. Nothing had flavor or brought pleasure. You take for granted the joy of a good meal or a special treat. When we were done with our devotional I awaited the arrival of my assigned visitor.