Home, but not really
Only it doesn’t feel like home anymore, except when Emily is hugging me. That’s why I let Emily sleep with me every night I’m here, I guess. The house is too big and too empty for us to sleep in separate rooms. But I’ve said this before. Today feels especially hard though.
The constant shots, nagging and separation from her normal routine is making Ana very depressed. The steroids aren’t helping either (with her mood – they do seem to be helping with her actual comfort level.) Sometimes it seems like she wants to give up. It feels hollow and phony to tell her to be strong when I’m not the one getting the painful shots every day, or feeling nauseous every time I eat, or being held captive in a hospital away from friends and family.
Ana is soul sick and in some ways, this is even harder than seeing her in pain. I am a helicopter parent, exposed. I’m the one who doesn’t like dodge ball, or competitions because someone has to lose, or too much homework. I see that now. But I can’t protect her from this and now she knows the truth. I’m a liar.
There is a part of my brain right now, right this very moment, collapsing in on itself because I can’t make this better for her. I can’t make her see past the misery of the moment. I can barely see past it. How the hell can I expect Ana to believe me when I say that eventually…down the road…in the not-too-distant future, it will be okay?
I’m a liar. I’m a fraud. I can’t fix it. I hate this. I’m in hell. Every morning I see her cry in pain from that damn shot, I’m in hell. Every time she gets on the scale and loses a little more weight, I’m in hell. This is absolutely my worst fear come true. A Stephen King novel on steroids. Ha. No pun intended.