She rides to treatment today with her knees drawn to her chest. She’s reading the book I started, and because she isnt the one driving she has now gotten ahead of me. The words drip off each page and fall like petals into her lap.
Treatment today will be filled with questions I can hear ringing in my ears. Why was she at the party? Didn’t we discuss her not being at the party? Did you observe her? I did. I think so? She’s hard to watch I always want to sweep her hair from her face. I always want to change her clothes. I hate myself for this. I wish I could just relax around her. She’s a time bomb to me. She’ll go nuclear again, and we’ll find her on the floor.
I feel so judged. I know it’s just me. Im doing my literal and actual best. I know this. I cant do more than this. I have twisted myself up, and feel like every instinct I have is wrong. So wrong I am afraid to leave any permanent marks anywhere. Nothing that cant be undone somewhere else. I am not good enough these days for writing words in ink. They must all be free to be erased and begun again.
I watch with curiosity as the other mothers make their way in and out and seem to hold a confidence I just dont. They look like they all finished college. I bet they didn’t have their sick daughter when they were 21. Its just plain too young. You know I hear speak of their kids being “cured” and I think to myself- “Fools!” This is a not a common cold. This is a cancer that lies dormant and go into remission only to strike again, without permission.