Why am I not asleep? I do this. I go 2 or 3 nights in a row of good, easy sleep and then this. Awake. It takes a long time to get to sleep and I’m up early. I’ve taken myself off the Ambien and off the xanax but I may have to call and see if I can get some more. I have my days…or nights rather.

Days are easy, relatively. Stephen used to get up and go to work before his lazy wife or children even stirred for the day. But it gets to about 4 or so and I expect that phone to ring. I expect it to me him, telling me that he’s on his way home. Isn’t that funny. He’s 10 minutes away and he still called every day. So I can pretend that he’s just at work. This is how our days used to go before he got sick. And then when he was sick and hanging out around the house, I was quick to want him to go back to work; quick to want things to be normal again. Too quick. It’s easy to pretend.

But nights are something else. I lay in bed like a human pacifier (man, am I ready for her to sleep alone…) with these images burned into my head. Time is healing the day to day but the nights are haunting. Remember in Harry Potter the thestrals? The beasts that pulled the carraiges up to Hogwarts and how you could only see them if you’ve seen death. That’s how I feel. I feel like I see things that not very many other people have seen. I know that sounds bad. It’s really hard to explain.

I have had so many people, mostly from church, come up to me to try to commiserate the season with me. Know what? I don’t want to hear it. Nobody has the same experience. Not one of us. Nobody else saw what I saw in the same way that I saw it. And I didn’t see what you saw (this is the royal “you” btw). Lots and lots of people die from cancer.

There is a boy right in my town that has the identical condition that Stephen had right down to the genetic condition that caused it. He has all the tumors in all the same places. But this boy is only 14. He’s been sick for years and now he’s not doing so well. What are the chances? This form of cancer is really, really rare. I mean really rare. And 2 in the same town, the same year? I want to call this boy’s mom. She’s the one I want to be with. But I’m afraid. I’m afraid that my story will crush her hope. I’m sure she’s heard the same tale from the same doctors but there is always hope. Hope for better days. The picture of the boy is spooky how much he looks like Stephen did in the last months. Even where the tumors are in this boy’s body. Spooky.

That could just as easily be one of my girls. They have the same genetic condition. Although most people with it have totally normal lives. It’s a relative few that have such dire outcomes. But it could happen.

See? I’m damaged. Who thinks of this so late? Woman, just go to bed already.

On a lighter note, the Child Formerly Known as Brat did really well today. The kids all played nice and took naps when they were supposed to and my house looked just like it does at the end of every day. So babysitting karma should be headed my way. Wait a minute…if the mom paid me does that mean that I still get karma? I wasn’t going to take money from her but it turns out I needed groceries so I did. Oh well. Girls gots to eat.

So I’m listening to lots of Allison Krauss and Sarah McLaughin (Do what you have to do, I will remember you) and Fleetwood Mac and Norah Jones. Random, I know. That’s the beauty of the ipod. I never thought I would love something so much. An object, I mean. I love my ipod (a little orange shuffle…they don’t even make orange anymore poor thing) almost as much as I love my Bernina. It’s that deep. Oh, and the podcast of This American Life. Can’t get enough of it. People are fascinating.

5 days left in 2007. I think I’m going to start a new journal in 2008. Maybe a really real public blog. Or not. There’s safety among divas. But I am going to start a new chapter anyway. I just have to think about what to call it.

Every day is a story. And I’m going to tell it even if it is just to myself. I’ve come a long way. Even from a month ago. I’ve been writing for 2 months. And it helps to get it all out. It helps to tell someone about my day. Because my days are still happening. I still have do get up and do this. I have to be everything to those girls. I want to do it. I want somebody to tell, to conspire, to bounce ideas off of. So, it’s the black blinking cursor that hears it all. It’s what keeps me talking. It’s what keeps me sane and gives me something to look forward to. Because that phone call? Will never come. The key jingle? Lost only to my dreams.


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