As of today, we are six weeks and some change out from Beau's accident.
It's been a whirlwind. I'm really not even sure where to start. It's hard to pull back feelings weeks out from them.
Beau's pain has gotten better, which is easy for me to quantify because I am not living in the pain personally. I am merely a witness. The debilitating bouts of cramps, burning, electric shocks, numbness, and other unexplainable feelings have lessened. Maybe lessen isn't the word. They come in episodes and the time between episodes has gradually stretched. He's walking unassisted having committed himself to a cane-free lifestyle earlier this weekend. He started the corvette on Friday and found himself struggling with the clutch. That seems to have lit a fire within him. He is determined to drive that car again, and after some time processing the discovery he was going to struggle with it, he's resolved to get back to it.
Beau made breakfast this morning. He is the breakfast parent. It was nice to see him back in action in the kitchen.
Externally, Beau is all healed up. He's going to PT twice weekly, and LJ is going to PT once weekly. I don't think I've told many people LJ is going to PT. LJ has torticollis, which is the medical term for a flat spot on his head. When he was nine weeks old, his pediatrician referred us to PT. I knew the left side of his head was looking flatter than the right. I'd walked into that appointment asking how close we were to needing a baby helmet to round him out and was surprised to learn that helmets are really only used for aesthetic purposes; his pediatrician said he needed PT to address the reason why he was favoring the left side. Turns out our little dude had quite a bit of muscle tightness on his right side. The cause is unknown and the possibilities are endless, but in the end it's a temporary issue and can be dealt with. We've been going once weekly for a few months now and he's getting stronger and rounder in every way, shape and form. On Tuesdays, Beau and I go to his PT appointment, and then on Thursdays, Beau, LJ and I make a visit. God forbid RB find out we are having these family outings without him.
LJ is turning into quite the fun baby. He is making so many sounds - like way more than RB was at this age. He is legit on the cusp of turning over. He's blowing bubbles and raspberries and laughing. He is very into chewing on everything he can get his hands on, including everyone else's hands. He's also huge; probably 20lbs at this point and just a few inches behind RB. Homeboy is a cornfed beast of a baby. LJ is just happy to be involved for the most part. He does everything with RB and loves everyone he meets. He's also recently realized there are dogs in our house and he is very interested in what exactly they are. He does get upset, but he's different from RB in that LJ is very patient and it takes a lot more to get him upset, but once he decides he is going to be upset, it takes a lot more to calm him down.
RB is todderling to the umpteenth degree. Lots of big feelings around here. The other night, I was wrapping up bath time and putting RB's PJs on. Here's how it went: I knew I was playing with fire. I could feel his tension in the air. He'd gotten ahold of a bottle of children's allergy medicine. I told him to put it back. He said no. I asked again. He said no again. I said (this is quickly becoming my own slogan I say it so damn much), "You have a choice. You can put it back or I can take it from you." He said no. I took it from him. Don't you dare try to call my fucking bluff. That's what the dam broke. It was Fit-town, USA from hereon out. I wrestled a diaper on him. He was furious. I put his pants on. He was furious. I put his shirt on. Furious. I dressed Bubba. FURIOUS. At one point, he let out a bloodcurdling scream; Beau texted me and asked if everything was okay because he'd heard RB screaming. Was everything okay? Technically, I guess. I still bear the emotional scars from this particular evening.
RB is also learning so much. His words are coming along just beautifully. He is fully obsessed with tractors and trucks. He's pretty dang silly. He loves to explore and climb and see how close to danger he can get before I am forced to intervene. He is in love with riding his bike and we are always outside. He's very helpful, most of the time. He'll put his dirty clothes up and bring me things when I ask for them. He's learning the alphabet at school. He's also learned to say everything (EVERYTHING) is his. Mine. Mine, mine, mine. We are either playing or arguing, sometimes both. I see so much of us in him. It's beautiful and terrifying. He's starting to mimic our behaviors. Example: LJ will be crying, I'll be making his bottle. I'll say in an exasperated voice, "Bubbaaaa. Calm down. I'm coming." RB has now started saying "Bubbbaaaa" in an exasperated voice when LJ starts fussing. It's funny, but also doesn't feel great to have a mirror held up like that.
We've had a revolving door of family helping out over here. My MIL and her partner, the boys godparents - they've been helping out so much. My mom was in town for a few days and did all of our laundry. My dad sent a bunch of food with her to feed us. The food thing - lord, have we been fed. We've been taken care of through this without doubt, both by those that love us and those that don't even know us.
People like to ask how I'm doing, how I'm holding up. In the same breath, it's both the easiest and most difficult question to answer. I'm okay. I don't stop to think too much. I need to keep it together. Should I fall apart, I think everyone else would too. Is that a selfish way to think? Maybe. But I have a very emotional toddler, a very empathic five month old, a husband going through things I can't even begin to understand. I have the responsibilities of every day life. I have a team at work that look to me for guidance. I have a lot of people watching me, trying to figure out which way things will go, and calculating their way forward based off it.
I am managing. The days of the sink being full of dirty dishes are becoming less common. The grass rarely gets overgrown. I finally put away two weeks worth of laundry this weekend. I take the boys on a walk every evening before dinner. They never miss a meal, a nap, or a bath. We play in the pool and outside. Beau never misses a dose of medicine (though maybe sometimes they're a little late). The house stays mostly clean. The dogs stay fed and get their treats. The car hasn't run out of gas on the side of the road. Our bills are paid. We have a hot, homemade meal most days - and the days I just can't make that happen, we have DoorDash gift cards to see us through.
There are evenings where I sit on the couch once the chores are done and I think I may never regain the motivation to stand up again. Then before I realize what's happened, I am up walking around, doing something or another. I tell people the thing I want most right now is sleep. That's honestly a joke. Sure, sleep would be nice, but the thing I really want most right now is peace; I want comfort for everyone in my house, and I want to see joy in the face of everyone I love.
Moral of the story is we're making it. Every day isn't hard and every day isn't easy. But every day happens just the one time. Eventually this will be a memory. It will be a season of my life that taught me the true fragility of our existence. I'll remember the pain I've witnessed, and the growth it forced. I'll forever know I am capable of things I'd never even thought about. The next time (and there will be a next time) I think to myself I don't have the strength to do something, I will draw on this experience and know that I am forged by fire.
I wrote the following on September 6 but did not post. I considered deleting it. It's heavy. But it's real.
Today marks three weeks in the most difficult chapter of my life thus far.
Let me preface this post by saying I recognize that is a very selfish way to look at this. I'm well aware I am not the injured party here. This didn't happen to me. I exist in the shockwaves of my husband's grievous injury. However, this is my blog, my safe place to air it out, so that is what I will do.
My husband almost died. He legitimately almost left this earth. The last words I would've heard him say were "I'll be back in 30 minutes, love you." The last thing he would've said to RB was "scoot, bud, I need to get out the door." It was such a mundane, unsuspecting moment. I wouldn't have ever thought it might be our last. He would have never seen us again. We would have never seen him again. On the drive to the hospital that fateful Friday, my brain asked me, "Did I just become a widow?" That is a question I would like to go the rest of my fucking life without repeating. This is still something I struggle to wrap my mind around. It's something I cannot think too deeply about or else the dam that is holding back a flood of tears will crack, and I fear the water to follow would never stop flowing.
My kids. Oh, my kids. I have a thing, maybe an obsessive drive is the best way to describe it, about keeping my kids as within their normal routine as much as possible, despite what is happening in the world around them. Their emotions and sensations are all new and unpredictable. Routine allows children (at least mine) to find stability in their world and comfort because they know what comes next. I am currently breaking myself in two to keep this going. I am doing everything I can to paint a smile on my face and hide the bags under my eyes. I am doing everything I can to swallow back the fear and the tears in the moments they try to escape. I am cooking breakfast, I'm making bottles, I'm singing Old MacDonald and I'm tickling my babies. I am acting silly; I am creating opportunities for them to be messy and explore. I am worrying about dirty diapers and teething and doctor's appointments. I am asking their teachers about their behavior, if they feel they're acting differently or seeking attention or validation. I am doing everything I can to just be a fucking mom and shield them from this harsh reality.
There are moments (many moments) when I am so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. Against my will, my patience thins with each passing day. My sense of humor is slowly shriveling and my shine feels dulled by the weight of all this. My hair is falling out, either from stress or anemia, the true cause unknown at the moment. My days feel like they don't end right now. From the second my feet hit the ground in the morning until I lay down at night, it feels like I am constantly taking care of someone else. Does the act of taking care of my family upset me? No, it doesn't, not at all. I have to recognize that I am just one person and I can't do it all no matter how hard I try. I almost feel like I'm stuck in a Chinese finger trap: the harder I try, the harder it is. There is no ground to be gained right now. There is no sigh of relief at the end of the day, no decompression, no feelings of accomplishment. There is only what is left to be done, which often feels like everything. There are dishes and bottles to be washed, laundry piling high, groceries to be bought, prescriptions to be filled, appointments to be scheduled, insurance claims to review, work to finish, meetings to attend, meals to make, dogs to feed, emotions to regulate, pain to mitigate. Right now, for me, there are no steps forward. I am merely wading in these rocky waters. There are no opportunities for honest conversation because with those come guilt and with guilt comes burden.
If there is one thing you can walk away from knowing, let it be this: I will not burden those I love, and I am not ever burdened by those I love. I am simply not capable of either of these things.
People have been asking how I am doing. That question mostly means to me, "how are you handling everything all at once?" Perhaps some people see the responsibilities and weight that I am currently bearing is a burden. Let me be clear: I do not feel burdened. I truly do not. I will always do everything I can for my family, without hesitation, without question. I will not be broken in my quest to provide comfort and stability. I will not shudder in the face of tragedy and the unknown. I will not allow pessimism to cloud my vision. I will stand firm on my belief that this is truly temporary. The pain my husband feels today will lessen over time until it is no more. We will get back to a sense of normalcy. Perhaps the normal we once knew won't return, but it will reform and redefine, providing consistency and clarity. At the same time, I am forced to acknowledge the truth that I am merely human. I can only hold myself together as much as the next person. I do feel stress; I do feel overwhelm. It's not fair for me to punish myself for my humanity, and I hope no one reading this judges me for feeling what I need to feel.
The pain he's been in has been hard to witness. I described it the other day to a friend that it sometimes feels like I am a prisoner of war, a war I am not able to fight, a war I never saw coming. My fellow soldier is being tortured and all I can do is witness and bear the weight as best I can. I won't look away. I will hold as much of the discomfort as I can get my hands on.
I've realized is going through things like this will shine a very bright light on who you can count on and who you cannot. Without our families, our friends, our family's friends and others within our community, I don't know how we would have navigated this. We would've, because we have no other option, but it would have been exceedingly more difficult.
It's interesting to me that the friends I thought would be here who are nowhere to be found. This type of situation shines a light on those who run from the storm and those who stand in its way, hold your hand, and spit in the wind. I am very blessed to have two emotional storm chasers in my corner. They are a huge part of the reason I have not been broken by this experience. They're very different, but equally important to me. I have spoken to each of them in my most darkest moments and they have individually and gingerly taped me back together. My feelings have mended and I have gotten up the next day, almost good as new. Without them, I really don't know what I'd do.
I've also leaned heavily (like Olympic level weightlifting heavy) into my family.
My mother-in-law, Cindy, and I have always been close. We are truly family in that we have shared the greatest of times and the heaviest of times. She is going through this from a different perspective, one that only now that I am a mother can appreciate. She is seeing her baby, because a mother's children will at the core of life be their babies, going through pain and anguish no person should experience. She had seen loss - loss no mother should ever see, as stated by the laws of nature. She is in this experience, seeing it through the lens of the present and the lens of the past. She is swallowing her fear to support her son and his family. I truly feel this is the kind of strength that only a mother can muster.
Her partner, the boys Pawpaw, Wayne - when I tell you he has come through for us, that does not do the support he's provided us justice. The boys godparents, our GiGi and Pop-Pop, Nancy and Dan, have been a true godsend. They've taken care of our boys and us. Both Dan and Wayne have done quite a bit of physical labor around our house. Things that I probably would've eventually gotten to but would've just raised the waters I am drowning in.
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