These damned Monocytes are very fickle. Up and down, up and down, like teenagers. Or, like Ashton. Hell, like ME.
If all goes well, we will be sprung by day 33 this time. However, this room confinement is enough to make a grown man cry on Round Two. I already dread Round Three and God knows I dread Cincinnati and then 100 days of house arrest after the transplant. I dread the next hour.
I rarely cry. I think I am having an episode. I am not allowed to do this unless I am alone. What’s the damn point? I’m crying now because even though I am educated I am so afraid for Ashton. I am afraid to keep him here. I’m afraid to bring him home. I’m afraid to bring him back here. I’m afraid to bring him to Cincy. I’m afraid the matches won’t commit. I’m afraid the matches won’t cooperate with his body. I’m afraid he will get very sick and I am afraid for his emotional response. I am afraid and I rarely admit this because I have maintained that these doctors know what they are doing and I just have to trust this process. Crying doesn’t help. I am afraid for him not being able to start Kindergarten. I am afraid for his isolation from other kids. I’m afraid of my not being able to handle it. I’m afraid of all of us missing LIFE. I’m afraid for his distance from his siblings and bike riding and swimming and trampolines.
I want him to go fishing. Today. I want to plant our garden, last month.
Yesterday, I spent my day “off” in a Volkswagen dealership. The lease on my car is up and I had to trade mine in. I ended up with a bigger payment and virtually the same car. I was determined to not have my former spouse co-sign for me. Therefore, a bigger payment. I would forgo a car entirely if we lived in Chicago. They have Public Transit. So, I just screwed myself even more financially because I cannot work while this is happening.
I am filling out one of many psychological tests for mothers with terminally ill children. Yes, he is terminally ill without a transplant. My scores are not good. I hate to admit that the longer this goes on and the longer I insist on being numb, the worse I will be. I have an intense need to “handle this”. After all, Ashton is handling it. In his own way. He doesn’t cry. He throws a fit. I am allowed to lose it once in awhile, but not on a Saturday.
I want this to go away.