Micaela's accident was 4 months ago. She is now finished with her therapies, but she is still in her wheelchair, still has right foot drop (cannot drive), and we are still waiting on her right knee ACL/MCL surgery. That surgery had to wait until her other three limbs were healed enough and strong enough for crutches. We should find out about that next week for sure. She will likely have vocal cord surgery at the same time, all the intubations left a granuloma with resultant hoarseness ... we'll find out for sure on that this afternoon.
People at church say, "Hi, Val", the usual, how's our girl, that sort of thing. Then they say, "How are you doing?" Do they really want an answer to that? Really? I'm falling apart. I don't know if I'm starting to really stress out about money and the fact that I have to start working 40 hours a week now, which I haven't accomplished, because I'm now out of money. I can't pay the bills if I don't get back to work full time. Or if, finally, the seriousness of Micaela's accident has finally hit me. Or the feelings of not being able to keep up with everything I should do. Or just all of it.
I cry all the time now. I can't help it. The least stressor sends me over the edge.
I started cleaning house Saturday, and it needed a good cleaning. I asked Micaela to help, because frankly there are things she can do from her wheelchair, other than climbing back into her recliner and just sitting on Hulu for the whole day. "Mic, you know how hard it is for me to clean the house all by myself.....?" She immediately fired back with "Dara and I both do it." Now, that's entirely not true. Sure, they have on occasion gone on a cleaning rampage and done a beautiful job . I'm lucky if that happens 4 times a year. Yet I'm expected to help her, work full time, keep the house clean, and keep my sanity? Without help?
I sent her to her room (she went to Dara's room to the recliner), told her I don't need her or her help and don't dare come back out of that room, and started tearing through the house in sheer rage, uncontrollable crying, cleaning this, throwing that, not knowing what to do with that bin of clothes so tossing it outside, did my best to kill the evil ironing board. So Micaela called Dara, who was staying out at my parents' just because she loves to, and Dara drove home, walked in the door .... with a smile and hello (which is sure to calm me down) ... and started with the bathroom, sent Micaela to her own room to get it clean, swept, etc. And soon, between the 2 of us, my house was clean and Jason's clothes were ironed.
I was sitting in church last night, glanced up at the balconey ... which
is about 80 yards from one end to the other ... my 17 year-old baby
girl was hit by an 18-wheeler and thrown nearly 80 yards ... and I
started hyperventilating. I couldn't stop it. So I took off and went
and sat down in the prayer room and cried. My whole body shaking with memories of that night, of the pain my baby girl went through in the ensuing weeks. Memories. Crying. Again. Alone.
When people ask me, "How are you?" do they really want to know? I think not. And if I break down and tell them how I really am, their panicked faces and quick answer will always be the same, "You need to talk to someone."
Yeah, right. Who? Jason? Huh. He's a good man, but he's clueless, and he honestly doesn't want to know. He never has. He doesn't talk to me, and he doesn't want me to talk to him. Keep it simple. So I do. I keep it distant. I hold it inside.
I don't ask for prayer or support, because the minute I think about doing that I see other peoples' problems, and they have things worse than me. Far worse. Cancer. Divorce. Death. Unsaved.
"Hi Val, how are you?"
"Oh hey, I'm good. Doing good. Thanks for asking."