I have decided that if I ever tip over the edge, it will not be because of the big things. It will be because of something silly, something like the vending machine at the ER taking my coins and refusing to cough up my corn nuts. Times like tonight I get really myopic, refusing to look much further than the end of my nose. I give myself pep talks:
"Hey, self, did you notice how fresh the coffee is tonight? So much better than that stuff last week, eh? And the new nurse ... Aleya? She's a sweety, isn't she? We're so lucky to have her. And look! All this time you have now to work on your embroidery! This isn't so bad."
And then the corn nuts get stuck in the machine, and the dam that had held back a torrent of emotion cracks; rage and overwhelming sorrow spurt out. But we can't have this. Not here. Not now. Not tomorrow either because come 7 a.m., a new day will have begun, and the kids will be counting on me to be functional, to keep their life rolling along on schedule. So I grab some concrete -- a quick joke, a friendly chat with a nurse -- and I patch up that crack as quickly as I can, before the whole thing goes ...
He apparently had a reaction to a new medication that they tried last night. It caused intense anxiety. They had to give him so much medication to counter it when I finally took him back tonight that he is higher than a drunk squirrel on a power line. I'll spare you the details, except to say that when we got home, it was only my quick lunging for his jacket sleeve that kept him from landing face down on the sidewalk. He is passed out on the loveseat now. I want to sleep. I need to sleep. But I'm afraid to, afraid that he will wake up, that he'll try to get upstairs and will fall. But he's not moving. Not a bit. I think it's safe to try for a little shut eye, down here on the other couch.
