Fowl Name Play

"Momma, I saw a seagull at 'Ani's house today!"

Theres lots of snow on the ground and were far from a coast, but I dont want to ruin Aeva's story.
"Oh man!"

"...a seagull mom?.." Iris doesnt share my enthusiasm.

"Actually momma, it looked more like an eagle..."

"Now THATS a cool bird Aeva"

"Actually momma...it looked like a seagull AND an eagle!"

"Thats a pretty silly bird kiddo..."

"A seagull mixed with an eagle?! Aeva that would be an Ea-gull...wait no... a Sea....gle...Nevermind."

The irony of it escapes Aeva but Iris and I have a shared love for word play. Ive discovered that lately and Im grasping at it like a lifeline.

Recently Iris and Aeva had a meeting with a nice lady at the local court house. The lady is assigned to our case and has been looking into how the girls live with each parent. Officially, shes evaluating my ex and I. To the girls, shes talking about 'mommies and daddies', a popular subject for the blondies lately. A soreness for me.

Its no secret that Ive had practice being the hybrid mom-dad parent for a while. My ex is in the military and has been pretty much the girl's entire lives. There have been training periods, deployments, oversea unaccompanied assignments, unit events, and other things that meant momma was on double duty. The difference now is that its not temporary and there is no headquarters to confer with on wether small child should be allowed to keep her hippy hair tendencies, or if Iris would truly benefit from piano classes right now, or if she should have an augmented allowance, nor anyone to dutifully discuss how to handle the small child's amusing yet slightly worrisome take on scissors:

"Momma...im not allowed my safety scissors anymore."
"Why?? wait...where??"
"At daddy's house...Cerberus...."
"Cerb? What did you do to Cerberus? Did you cut the dogs hair?!"
"No...I dont think so...I think it just...fell off...yeah. It fell off!"
"It fell off...the dog's hair FELL off??"
"Yes."

She stood by this. No matter what innocent excuse I tried to offer her in exchange for a confession....she STUCK by spontaneous hair expulsion on our old dog. It obvious that in her father's household the course of action was decided: Scissors were banned. What do I do in mine though? Who do I consult with? The incident cant even be talked about with him because we just dont communicate. Not right now anyhow.

Yet, I have an easy understanding with Aeva. She seeks to please her momma and will always, no matter how upset she gets at me for disciplining her, Aeva will come back to my lap seeking solace and cuddles. She had significantly less time in a mom AND dad household. Shes only ever really known the hybrid parent.

But Iris.
Although the fued in that child's heart and mind has been almost entirely invisible to the public eye, I've seen the struggle in her. Shes blamed me. Shes blamed him. Shes blamed both of us. Shes held herself entirely responsible. She comes to terms and then slips again. Ive watched her, wanting to comfort her but coming close has shut her down. Staying near by has made her resentful. There has been no way to bridge the gap because bridges were lost when her father and I split.

Iris has always been a Daddy's Girl. The first thing the court appointed evaluator told me when I entered her office after my children had privately spoken to her was:
There is no doubt that Iris is exactly her father's image as surely as Aeva is yours.
They look alike, speak alike, think alike and have so many common interests that I will admit...I have felt alienated from their connection since she was so very very little.

Ive been building bridges to Iris. Ive thrown out hand rails and boards for her to use. Ive learned to teach her my kitchen craft in baking as her father has taught her how to cook. We've taken up needle and thread. Word play. Harry Potter. TEXTING.  We've discussed social studies via text when we cant be together and Ive found that we understand ourselves best in written words.

This hybrid parent stuff, its difficult. Its taxing. Mothers are natural nurturers, fathers are discipliners. Hitting a mid-point between both is nearly impossible most days.

The final court dates are rapidly approaching and soon everything will be finalized. It gives me a deep ache I worry will never be eased.

I dont miss being married. The majority of the marraige was trouble and heartache for both. I dont miss the unhappiness.
I miss the parenting. I miss being able to be just mom, even if I had to wait 12 months for a deployment to come to an end. I miss sharing the mutual responsibility of the children that are equally belonging to both of us. I miss knowing that the other person loves the child truly too.

Now its me, late at night, talking to myself:

Well, she cut the dogs hair. No doubt about it. I should take away scissor.
NO. Taking them away only enforces the taboo and hightens the obsession.
But is it worth risking her chopping off her hair, or her sisters hair...or ours??!
Shut up. Youre missing the big picture. Scissors stay.

Its me watching Iris at her birthday party:

Can you believe it? 10 years...
To think we nearly lost her.
Yes but she survived and those 2 weeks of hell in NICU are well behind us.
Now we worry more about training bras.
Really?! Training bras? Thats what you worry about?
Well its better than boys.
WTF, shes TEN! Shes into Harry Potter! Shell be single a long while so long as she remains this much a nerd!
Youre right.....Im redoing her wardrobe a la Hogwarts stat.

Its me deciding wether I should push for Kindergarten testing for Aeva a year early. Its me deciding wether or not to pull Iris from a school with a bullying issue.

While being a hybrid is tiresome, I think I fear bringing someone else in to my monologues in parenting more than the exhaustion from doing it alone. What if he doesnt love them like I do? Of course he WONT, but what if he doesnt get close at all? What if relationship wise were a match, but hes not a strong parenting match. What then?

Its late and now Im having this monologue with the computer screen and keys I can see when I squint (my contacts are dry). The amount of grammatical and spelling errors are sure to be high but Im way too fucking tired to care today. Ive been a Momdy and a Dadmy something fierce lately and I guess much like Aeva's genetically confused fowl, it doesnt much matter how I divvy it up as long as I can still make it fly right?

Damn skippy.

Loose ends

I wrote this years ago in the middle of an anguished time in life full of fear of being forgotten. 

I've not been shy about my biggest fear in a long long time. Why hide it? Secrets...they seem especially sweet to the evil and perverse. They find it exquisite to lord it over you: 'see? I've something no one knows. I've cause to have you hide. To have you run.'

But no secrets stay secret for ever. I ousted mine years ago as a peace offering to life. As a plea to others. 

"See here! This is my fear. I beg of you.. Do not bring it against me. "

I fear abandonment.

Being left so swiftly and without a speck of regard. This act of purposely forgetting someone because they meant nothing. 

Severing ties that bind. 

I wrote this then and yet it still hovers over me. So I beseech anew: do not hold this blade over my neck...

Loose Ends 

I dont think you can remember me
Feels like its been ages
but counting back...weve hardly been apart
what happened way back when, can you tell me what started it all?
Ive loose ends i want to tie...like laces on a shoe
because they keep on tripping me as i walk this life
catching a foot forward by the foot thats on the back
Ive tried so hard to reach down to them
those white strings of lies 
and every time i go for them...i loose my sight and fall
Im laying here now, on the pavement, on the ground
The laces seem so far from me
I wonder if theyll be found
Somewhere far along the length of me...scars now, scars..
Resting my cheek on the gravel i stretch my arms out to the front
Dont think im reaching forward
I want to be helped up
This time its not so easy to dust the old knees off
The dirt is all over me, seething painful in my mouth
And still i think of yesturday
White lines white lace white lies
A color so easy tarnished
Except in the mind
I cant look to them, im sure i could curl up and glance
To think that they may still be unraveled
Far better that than I
looking back to see the ends shear cut off
nothing left of those strands
for me to tie back up

Gone

I was turning the lock on my front door the other day and I had an unbidden image of you come upon me. It was of you in the living room in your momma’s arms being your usual cuddly self. As I opened my door wide into my empty and dark apartment, the image was replaced by pink balloons. Your memorial balloon release on that chilly November morning; Aeva in my arms and the wind tangling the mass of helium filled latex into a nearby tree.  It was almost funny enough to laugh. But it got caught up in my throat instead. Then and once again, now.

My children leave every other weekend, for a few days, to be with their dad. They were not here this weekend, but tonight, they are.

Gone. Then back again. Gone. Then back.

Their rooms are quiet always when they aren’t here. I like it that way. I can almost imagine that they’re just in the other room and their scent, sweet and mine, can be taken in from their rumpled sheets.

They are MESSY children. They leave their imprints everywhere in the house. I trip over shoes and dolls and find panties strung like little banners where a child tried to kick it into a basket. And missed.

But they show proof of existence.

Gone. But back again.

I have held on to hand-me-down clothing given to me for my littlest in a green tub that now stands in the middle of their room, overflowing with articles both girls have dug through. Clothes that, when I first received them, I could not imagine Aeva growing into any time soon.  That was yesterday. Or so it seems.

You feel like yesterday to me. Like Friday evening, home without kids because they are visiting dad. Going down to VA to hang out with friends. Too busy to call home because weekends away are fun.

My Friday evening, before going home, involved a stop at the Postal Office. As I’m sure you know, I have a love hate relationship with the post office. Having to find one, getting in line, finding the right shipping thinga-majig…this all based on if I even REMEMBER to make it to the post office on time. Or at all.

In the post office I picked up a poster mailer. From my bag I pulled out a sketch book I hadn’t touched in a while, full of partial pencil sketches and abandoned ideas. The last few weeks I have been sketching in ink, drafting rough little images of Iris’s sweet smile and Aeva’s dramatic poses. I see these girls almost every day, and yet my sketches show messy lines and blurred features now and again.

In my sketch book there’s a drawing of you. Bold and clear lines. I never picked up a pencil, and once I had decided on your image, I never needed a second page. I wanted to draw you smiling, like I could see you in my Yesterday and like I described you a year ago.

I couldn’t.

My mind couldn’t wrap around your little smile that lifted just a little higher on the right. My fingers couldn’t curve it. I drew you as I knew you to be inside: Wise. Looking back at me as though the past two years you’ve been growing up somewhere away from here.

Gone. Not yet back again.

But when those balloons cleared from sight, I struggled to comprehend again that you’re gone. You’re not home in Georgia, or away anywhere I can reach you at. How can that be possible? I have a set of your PJs, worn down by Aeva’s insistent use of them. I have the little cast. The pictures.

How does anyone, anything, GO…and not come back?

I drew you with curls. It was one of the last touches I had of your sweet physical form. The crazy waves of curls crashing around your face, hiding all the traces of cancer on your little head. Refusing to be destroyed. I loved their rebellion.

Your momma and daddy just got that package. I didn’t tell them about it. It was my gift to them for your 2nd angelversary.

Every morning I pull my clothes from the same dresser where your memorial is placed. There’s a scent so sweet there I cannot explain but it smells of clean, and home, and love. I must havewalked by it a million times since I moved you there. Last week it made me stop. I sniffed every article of clothing, checking against the fresh laundry out of the dryer…trying to pin-point its origin. Why it seemed so nostalgic. It’s when I looked up at the Jasmine candle I set by you that I realized where it came from. It reminds me to start my day with love towards my children whom soon will grow up so quickly that today will only feel like Yesterday.

I realize now, you’re a messy little girl yourself. You’ve left imprints of your existence everywhere so thick that two years do not begin to diminish the memory of you in my Yesterday. Little banners of life that string up across everyday life, stopping me in my tracks and reminding me that you were here. Proofs of your existence that don’t fade like the strewn laundry and the toys of my daughters.  Proof that is more resistant to time than your scent, which unlike my own twos’, can’t be replenished with a snuggled night. Your life made use of my grief and fashioned it into a compass. To remember. To cherish. To be messy with my existence and love.

The grief that feels like its gone. Yet rolls right back again.

My lost sense of direction.

Gone. Then back again.

 

 

Anything that can go wrong, Ill find it.

Murphy's Law should in all honesty be renamed 'Sherlin's Law'. 

Anything bad, wrong, and utterly absurd that can happen...WILL happen. To me. 

I mean really, WHO else calls 911 and gets put on hold? Twice. For 10 minutes. 

Thank you kindly for the elevator music Emergency Response Team, but Im sure that my pending death will not be delayed due to your 'busy operators'. 

And who's brilliant idea was it to leave last years school calendar up on the school website? More over, what luck that LAST years first day of school is the same date as THIS years 2nd day of school. 

Passing by the school: "Huh...look at that Iris theres kids OMG THERES KIDS GOING TO SCHOOL!!!"

The poor kid has probably never had a quicker onset of first-day jitters. 

Then there are days like today. 

You ever gone to Target and gotten stuck there? I don't mean "oh look theres a sale!" stuck. 

I mean "Fuck. The scooter just died." stuck.

As you all know (because I am the sun and the world as well as all universes revolve around me), Im on crutches still. Though it breaks my prideful heart into a zillion pieces all taped back together with clearance price tags...I use a motorized scooter when ever I go shopping. 

So far today I had grabbed brunch at a little spot I've been aching to go to for months, found 2 pairs of shoes for work that I love, and got a super cute haircut from a stylist I have never used before. Naturally I thought I was invincible so I went to Target for "bread" (yeah. Like everyone ever goes there for JUST a necessity).

I hopped into a little motorized cart, shoved my crutches in with me, and got my Tar-jay (thats fancy for Target) on.

ZOOM! through the Mossimo t shirts!

ZOOM! through the Shabby Chic bedding!

ZOOM! through the chocolate aisle!

Oh look, bread.

zzooomm... through the coffee aisle...

zzzz....

And thats when I ran into a mute foreigner that neither understood that my cart was dead and I wasnt purposely going slow enough to read all the nutritional values on every single box of Archer Farms holy-goodness and thus impeding him from continuing his shopping, nor did he have the ability to tell me to fuck off in what ever language he spoke. He did, however, use some sort of sign language. Sorry bud, I only know American Sign Language and Rude Fingers.

By the next aisle, there was no juice what so ever left in my little cart. Faced with a full cart, crutches and the farthest corner of the store with no associate in sight, I did what any other crushed soul in need of help would do:

I called Target. 

From inside Target.

"Ma'am, where are you located?"

"In....the chip aisle...."

So while I waited to hear the replacement cart hurtling towards me at an astounding .02 miles per hour to save me from the crutches of a dead battery, I grabbed a bag of chips. 

You know. To thank them. For their hospitality. And company. 

Alas, the replacement cart finally arrived and I was able to transfer all my 'bread' to the new zippy cart while the security officer stood by stoically and slightly annoyed. Hobbling between the carts I was pretty mortified and simply wanted to get the fuck out of dodge. 

So how does one scurry away in horror? Heres a hint: Dont' back up.

BEEP BEEP BEEP!!

Yea I totally did that under the radar of any deaf person in a 50 mile radius. 

To make matters worse, I could hear the security officer dragging the troublesome cart across the waxed linoleum floors screeching wildly at its demise no doubt in route to Charging Jail. 

As I checked out I had to see it watching me from the other side of the glass doors, chained to the wall plug, blinking red with loss of charge. 

As far as situations go, that was mild. As far as thinking ahead....I bombed. 

If I had a customer service desk in my house it would go a little like this:

"Ma'am, where are you located?"

"In the parking lot...with bags I cant carry upstairs"

Pile of Ashes

Im just going to lay it out there for ya:

Im a chicken.

I am scared of needles, pain, and blood makes me queasy. I ask for valium for a cavity filling, and insects...well if you've been reading me this long you know what the hell insects do to me.

I also suck hard at asking for help. I like to be a 100% certified Do-it-yourselfer. 

3 weeks ago I flew to Pittsburgh for major surgery. Im still incredibly stunned that I made it TO Pittsburgh, let alone the hospital because let me tell you...I was terrified. Although it may have something to do with my sister Rubia and my friend Chris standing there, arms crossed shaking their heads at my feeble attempts of escape.

Arriving at the hospital before sunrise, I was quickly put in those cute and super fashionable hospital gowns with the convenient fully exposed backs. As each nurse, surgeon, and general hospital staff filed through I asked of each the same: "PLEASE knock me out! I DONT WANT TO SEE THE O.R.!!" I had no shame really. I was a snotty crying mess, trembling in my gurney  bed, even spewing the lame excuse of having to go pee real quick in order to prolong my death-stroll to the operating room. One of the anesthesiologists chuckled lightly as he was giving me an intravenous shot saying that I would soon feel like I had had a nice glass of wine. 

"I'd much prefer a bottle!" was probably not what he expected as a reply.

By the second dose of amazingness into my vein-line, I vaguely remember watching the nurse at her desk ask me a question whilst my brain yelled "She's talking to you! Answer her!" but my lips weighed like a pair of bricks.

And then they were shaking me awake.

Cue the frantic post anesthesia face-scratch off. 

First I madly wanted to rip off the plastic over my face. My nose was ablaze in itch and I just wanted to tear it apart a little. Bad choice because while I sounded like Darth Vader, that oxygen mask was supplying a good percentage of my oxygen. No mask and I was Buzz Lightyear the first time his helmet was opened: "Gasp! GAASSSSPPPP!!!" But lets be honest here, what can make you forget about severe oxygen depletion like excruciating bone pain? Let me answer that for you....

NOTHING. 

I mean, yea they just sawed off the blasted thing no biggie. Its nothing pain medication cant help, right? I just have to motion the nurse over nicely with erratic zombie arm flops and useless attempts to what? Hold my leg because that eases the pain? Yeah. That shit there, it totally DOESNT WORK. And apparently neither does morphine all up in my vein system because although the nurse handed me the 'med boost power button' that can give me extra pain killers every 6 minutes lets face it, Im Sherlin. Sherlin would say, press the button, and her body would be all 'Yea that was a good try kid, but we dont do drugs'. You guessed it, my body didn't respond to the awesome power of the fukital med.

Know what did knock me out however? Crying. Crying hysterically and for a prolonged period of time will for sure make you pass out from sheer exhaustion like a 2 year old who threw a tantrum over a lollipop. Like any good parent that sees a tantrum and documents it, so did my sister take a picture of me with swollen eye balls, tear streaked cheeks, and a pout no less. 

Ahh...good times good times...

Except, heres where my body declares its hatred for me, once Im fully asleep... I stop breathing. Dont worry though, know what happens when you stop breathing in your sleep but your heart doesn't? You jolt awake. Let me remind you im perhaps an hour post-op and my hip and leg were sliced and diced. Yeah. Those jolt too. 

Happens to be that Morphine, that nifty clear liquid doing absolutely nothing useful in my blood system, causes shallow breathing. In my case, too shallow. 

It was a fun 5 hours. 

Like any good patient, the first thing I asked my sister for after surgery was my phone. Its judgement time suckas...you know whom you matter to by those texts you get while you might already be dead...and yall know who you are. I have text records.

I went under at about 730 am, and was out of surgery around 2 or 3. Thats an unbearable amount of time for a little girl of 9 waiting for her mom to resurface. Her first text asking to Skype was met by Rubia's news that I was already in the O.R. It hurt a little to hear through her typed out words the disappointment she had at being just 30 minutes late. Every hour, 1 or 2 new time stamp inquiries from Iris. Each one a little more impatient. Each one met with Rubia's lovingly patient and G-rated response as to my progress. Its like I had ventured into Space to fight an alien monster and she was awaiting my swift heroic return but taking every lapsed hour as a sign of defeat. 

Finally I fat fingered: Hi Baby...its Mommy.

What it read to the both of us was: I did it. I made it baby. Im still here.

Although what it was starting to feel like to me was: "What have I done? Ive made a mistake..."

I cannot sit up. I cannot wiggle my toes. I cannot piss and I sure as shit cant stomach looking at whats under the sheets. My surgeons on the other hand, have a different idea. 

Let me tell you something about my surgeons. I have 5 of them. They're all 7 foot some and save for one...unbelievably handsome. Like GQ sent their models to Medical School. I've also spent 7 plus hours fully naked in their presence with no recollection. Thats both terrifying and upsetting. 

They also have typical Ortho Surgeon take-no-bullshit personalities that make it infuriating to speak to them when you're in my situation so it all balances out. Some. 

With his nonchalant I-cut-people-and-bones-on-a-daily-basis way, Dr. Bill throws back my covers and I have no time to look away. The gauze and surgical tape starts at my hip and ends past my ankle bone with only a short 6 inch break at my knee. There are two valves extracting blood and I am desperately searching for my puke pan.

And yall thought I was brave. 

When Dr. Rob, standing at the foot of my bed, has had enough of my whimpering and sissy-fit he looks at me sternly and says:

"Hey. You told me you were tough, that first time I met you in the office. Now prove it to me."

Hes right. They all told me this was a no bull-shit surgery. That this crap right here, it would suck and suck HARD. That I was not meant to do this with no spouse or parent to care for me for a month or more. That I needed to think this through and figure out how the hell I was going to make sure that I didn't fuck it up once we were past the point of no return. It was me who told them I would figure it out. That I was sure, and I didn't need time to think because I had been led here to this ONE opportunity to save my leg and that I was TOUGH. 

Well then...lets stir up this pile of ashes. 

Into the FIre

6 Years, 4 months, and 26 days ago I simply didn't die.
I survived.

I wavered between hazy consciousness and drugged sleep, yelling at nurses that the bed was swallowing me. That I couldn't breathe. I had one good arm and that was it. My head, face, right arm and legs were damaged. I had no say in my surgeries and I went in to the OR crying, begging not to go.  I woke up to a leg that would never be the same, run through with a titanium bar. "Skeletal Traction" the surgeon called it, and demanded I stop my whimpering and start forcing my muscles wake up again, to point my toes, bend my knees, flex sore muscles impaled by metal. He told me that this wasn't the end,  nor the beginning of the healing. This was a pause in time, a stolen few years before my body would start to shut down the bone and I would need a replacement. How long? Who knew. "Face it, look at your wounds. Look at your new leg. Look at what you now are"

None of it was a choice.

Tomorrow is a choice. Right now I am at the base of a monstrous mountain. I havent even started, Ive merely arrived at its feet. I am looking up to the peak hidden up in the clouds and the climb seems overwhelming. The first step seems to be impossible to force myself to take, my mind screaming inside my head: "This is atrocious! This is barbaric! This is not the easiest path! Run! RUNRUNRUNRUN!"

In the days counting down to my femoral bone graft, I have thought heavily on Jasmine. Jasmine whom didn't have a bone removed and implanted further up her leg, but half her brain removed. Jasmine whom had ports in her heart, head, and belly. Jasmine who had more surgeries that I, with much less odds of survival and recovery than I have been given. Jasmine whom I never in my life saw cry a tear for anything so pitiful as an operation. My smiling Monkey, who never felt the despair and rage that I am encountering now.

Having moved to a one level apartment in preparation of 6 months of crutches, I recently unpacked Jasmine from her travel container and placed our molded hands and her precious ashes on my bureau. I've always wondered why she wouldn't let me hold her hand that day, fighting instead to hold mine in hers. Leading me. From her altar in my room she's often listened to me talk about my roughest moments. Asking for guidance. Asking for help. Asking for her match in grace.

Unfortunately I dont have the strength that child did. I have asked the nurse, no, I've BEGGED the nurse to drug me up before I ever get to the OR. I dont want to smell the antiseptic smell of that stainless steel room. I dont want to see those lights and masked faces. I want this small amnesty from the war against AVN.

Iris asked me if I was scared. I lied and told her only a little bit. I told her I was instead looking forward to being healthy and whole again so that I could chase them in the park. I told her that after all of this was done and over I wouldn't get as tired as I used to. That I wouldn't need to stop because I was in pain. That we could do REAL Yoga, without alteration, and I could sit on the floor cross-legged again.

The truth is that I am sitting outside my hotel room trying to avoid sleep and the coming of dawn. Theres a swing set below my room that I want to sit on because when the new Sun rises I will be surrendering my body to the fire.

I am the Phoenix, and when the sun has begun its decent...I will rise from the Ashes.

This New Journey

Taking a little bit of a serious tone here, Im pretty fucking bone tired. Literally. My bones, namely my Femur, is done. And Im tired of the pain and complications.

Last Thursday I took a trip up to Pittsburgh to see a SPECIAL Specialist. Hes no ordinary doc. What he specializes in, is a type of bone transplant and it makes me green to even hear the explanation. Gather your puke bag fellas.
Short and sweet, my femoral head (the very top knob of your thigh bone) is dead bone which is as strong as say an egg shell under the right conditions. Im not divulging my weight but the half that sits on that egg shell is on the hefty side. One bad twist, turn, fall, or hopscotch hop and CRACK, im sitting on nothing that will feel ok. Granted, I knew this would come. I knew I would develop Avascular Necrosis in my femoral head and need the bone fixed or replaced before the whole damn thing dies.
I just didnt expect it now. In the middle of this superbly prolonged and disgustingly vile divorce and custody battle.
But I digress...
The good M.D. plans to cut into my lower leg and saw off the middle 11cm of my fibula (the non-weight bearing bone in your lower leg) and cover the surgically jagged ends with muscle and skin and leg-stuff. The part he is sawing off will have an artery sticking out of it which is very much alive and well. Now cutting into my hip, the surgeon plans to drill a hole into the dead head and its neck, just precisely the size of the fibula he cut. Transplanting the fibula into its new home, he will then meticulously attach the fibula artery to the arteries in my femur that were first destroyed in the car accident. This new blood supply system should in turn cause my dead bone to come back to life slowly and rebuild itself much like a broken bone mends.
Or you know, how Frankenstein gained limbs.

Just so you know, yes. Im fucking petrified.
Of not walking.
Of having my leg sawed into.
Of 6 months of no walking without crutches.
Of Pain.
Of life-long pain.
Of a 20% failure rate.
Of never ever again being able to sit down crosslegged on the floor and play with my kids because my hip is broken, hurts like a bitch and I cant even move it that way.
And of closing my eyes and not coming back.

Ive lived in a great amount of fear the past 2 years almost. Fear of being poor, not seeing my kids, and being alone. I wont say Ive done a great job at entirely hiding it from my kids. I think its important that they see that pain does exist in life.

And yet:

They didnt see me with blood-shot eyes and spit-stained shirts checking to make sure they were breathing as infants and sitting to cry because my entire body felt slashed open by birth and nursing.
They didnt see me hugging an empty car seat on a ride home from the airport, on Iris's first flight to her father for a few months the first time we separated...wondering if I even deserve to have her back.
They didnt see me come into their rooms, late at night in that house he left us in, to stare at their sleeping faces because I couldnt sleep alone. Or at all. And needed to see them in order to know why this couldnt be my end.
They dont see me crying when Ive had to be stern; be Mom and Dad and Judge and Warden when theyre not angels and I fear I have been too hard and not understanding enough.
They dont see me wincing when I kneel for one, or carry the other, because no matter their age, weight or my injuries...they will always be my tiny babies.
They dont see me rushing to make appointments and school events that he forgets about, no matter how much work I have or how little cash is left, never telling them he wouldnt answer the pleading emails.
They couldnt see me driving home with what felt like a death-sentence from pittsburgh, surgery paperwork in hand, driving too fast but not faster than my thoughts.
They wont see how bruised my arms are from the crutches I have to use now, how much harder getting around is, and how tiring it is to cook anymore....
I wont have them see me fight to recover. They will see me come home the way I left. No matter how much pain this doctor says I will be in. No matter how long he says I will have to work to get better. They will not see me any worse than today. Only better.

Because they will NEVER see me give up the ability to be a full-range mother because of fear of any surgery, pain, or injury.

For the chance to be better and give them more...I signed the papers. I agreed to surgery. I have started a year long journey.