I wish I knew what to say. I don't know if I have anything to say. Let's just...see where this goes.
Things are moving quickly, in the downhill direction. He's in a hospital bed in the living room, unable to breathe unless he stays perfectly still and immobile, utterly wiped out from the fight of the past six months. There is talk of moving to morphine soon. Everyone is scrambling to visit, exchanging helpless text messages about how much this sucks and...and...yeah.
How are you doing?
I don't know. You?
I'm going up to see him on Friday, maybe even Thursday night. I don't know whether to go by myself or try to bring the boys one last time -- if this is, indeed, the one last time -- I don't know how to help, what to do, how to feel except bone-blisteringly, overwhelmingly sad. But it's a sad mixed with happy while I fold onesies and count kicks and kiss my children good-night, like an umbrella I keep forgetting to hold onto.
Is it okay to change the subject? To talk about OB appointments and weight gain and belly shots? How is one supposed to deal with a timeline of birth and death or whichever comes first when it's not part of a montage in a movie, set to music, that skips all the moments in between where you sit on your bed and stare at the wall, thinking about how much this sucks, but also that wow, you really need to put some laundry away?
Because that's where I'm at. And I don't feel like folding shirts.