confession tuesday

Adrift.

That’s me in a nutshell, at least for the past few days. I’m still readjusting back to my usual mode of being, one which doesn’t require me to be so strong, so focused on the needs of others to the exclusion of almost all my own.

It still seems surreal that exactly a week ago, this time today, I was riding an ambulance to Harborview Medical Center in Seattle after my daughter’s accident. And now she’s been home for more days than she was in the hospital, completely herself except for a fading black eye, the remains of a large scrape starting to peel off her forehead, some small scrapes on her right elbow and fingers, and a small bruise on the right side of her belly that marks where her liver was injured. Things you would probably never notice unless you got her to slow down long enough for a good look. Surreal.

I, on the other hand, do not feel like my old self. I am acutely aware, in a way that feels like a new wound that keeps getting touched, of the fragility of life, how precious my children are to me, and my own powerlessness and utter dependence on a power greater than me.

After so much of my attention going to caring for my daughter and supporting my husband, it feels as if I’m suddenly not needed. And I don’t really want to be needed; in fact, I don’t even want to answer the phone. I feel like I need to stay busy, but it’s a supreme effort to even load the dishwasher. I feel guilty for doing things for myself, and yet starved to do them. Overarching all this rollercoaster of emotions is an unwavering, humbling sense of gratitude that my daughter is alive, happy and healing.

I cry now. For no apparent reason. Several times a day.