My middle girl went out with her oldest friend, today. The girl had moved to St. Thomas a few years back, so they only get to see each other every few months. I was irrationally, pathetically hopeful when I dropped her off, because it seemed so much like her life
before.
Like a huge, hot stone burning in the middle of my chest, there was the hope that maybe if she goes out with her friend, she'll be all better when I pick her up. This will all be over, she won't hurt anymore and she'll go on with her life. She'll finish school, go to the college of her choice, get a great job, find the right person, settle down, raise a family that never knows pain or unhappiness, live a long and happy life and die peacefully in her bed surrounded by her loved ones when she's 98 or so.
But when I got there and saw her I could tell, even from the curb. She hugged her friend and chirped "see you later" but I could see the heaviness of her lids that signals she hurts bad. I got her home and she went straight to sleep, covered in ice packs. She took the one extra pill she is allowed when it's really bad, so I put her mattress in our room to keep an eye on her. I'll never say it to her but the heavy drugs scare me and when she needs the extra pill, I keep her close like when she was a baby. Then, I kept her bassinet next to my bed and slept with my hand on her chest to make sure she was breathing. Tonight, every few minutes I look over my shoulder and don't take my own next breath until her chest rises and falls again.
It's been very hot here the last few weeks. I want to be at the beach. Click to download if you do, too.
