Hit Me

It hit me.

Everything we've been through in the last two years, in the last 6 years, hit me like a mother fucker.

February is a hard month.

Because two years ago, a lot of shit started going down. And it feels like every time I raise my head, I get hit again...and again...and again....

I keep getting up, though.

Even though life has hit me and my family incredibly hard.

I know that the color of my skin and my privileged education and status in my community look envious on the outside.

But, secretly, my family is your worst nightmare.

Because of the myriad health issues we have faced since October 2010, when our son was diagnosed with Seizure Disorder.

Then another hit, October 2012: Autism

And March 2015: huge blow of breast cancer, Stage 2. 

Then May 2016: my husband's tonsil cancer, Stage 4.

That one almost took us all down for the count.

But we survived.

And it all hit me this month.

What we've been through.

I'm having difficulty making decisions, and a lack of appetite. It's hard to decide what to feed the boys. I want to sleep a lot, I cry a lot, and I have difficulty paying attention...more than usual.

Depression has raised her ugly head again.

She's raised it higher than after each of the boys were born.

She's sticking her knife into my heart and letting it slowly bleed all over her gray hand.

Yoga: check.

Meditation: check.

Time for self: check.

Mental health therapist: check.

Antidepressants: check.

"When will it be spring?" the 10-1/2-year-old child asks.

"March 20th is the equinox," I reply.

"Not soon enough!" he yells into the still coldness of the day.

"I know dude" and think to myself, it'll be 2 years since my lumpectomy on March 20th. And my parent's 35th wedding anniversary.

"But the daffodils will bloom soon, right over there," I point to the ground, about 30 feet north of where we are standing.

Later on, I am talking with my almost 8-year-old son. He's starting to look forward to summer, making plans to go to the lake, the beaches...maybe Uncle Sammy will come up and bring Auntie Melody.

And then this amazingly bright and insightful child, who has more on his plate than any other second-grader I really know of, who is dealing with a slight cold, turns to me and says, "Mom, I hope we don't have to deal with cancer again this summer."

"Me too, dude," is the best response I can offer him, as we hug each other for comfort.