I was going to write about writing, instead, I decided to write about living.
Sometimes, when it's late, sometimes when I let him doze off, I watch him sleep. I stop what I'm doing, I stop pretending that everything is fine and just watch.
I watch the way he breathes, I watch his face, his eyelashes. I look and I wonder how we make it. I wonder how even with all of the hope and miracles we've had, how sometimes it's like we're holding onto a thread.
This quiet contemplation only happens when he's asleep. When I see him in his most fragile state.
That is when I lose my mind, and I just can't help but cry. And I beat myself up for not working harder. Or not doing this. Or not doing that. Like I have control of his illness. Like if I could JUST do this, or if I had just done that.
The hardest part is surrendering. Surrendering to the fact that I'm doing all that I can, my very best, that we are doing are very best.
Somehow, though, knowing this doesn't make it feel any better. And then I mop myself up, and push through another couple of days, weeks, months.
We've made it this far. Nothing will stop in our way. That's the only thing I know, that's as far as I can see.
And I'm okay with that for now.