I’m supposed to spend the day today talking about how Thankful I am. I’m supposed to say that it’s wondeful that Jane popped out of bed all healthy this morning, begging me to go to school.
I’m supposed to say that I’m thrilled that I can finally take a deep breath, and that my lungs are finally clearing.
I’m supposed to be grateful that I have a husband I adore, and who makes me laugh.
I barely slept last night because the steroids make me jittery, but I slept a little because of the benadryl I’m taking for the rash.
I sat downstairs on my family room sofa, shivering under a blanket and wishing I could sleep. When I lie down I literally feel like I’m drowning in my own mucus and I started to cry, then I felt congested sitting up too. And as I gasped for breath, alone on my sofa, I sobbed uncontrollably because a few weeks ago I was sitting on that sofa with Anissa. Who also cannot breathe.
I don’t feel grateful or lucky or even okay.
I feel like somehow G-d forgot about her, and like all she ever did was give of herself, oh except on the days when she gave a little more.
So I’m sorry if I can’t be all sparkly today, but I’m finally not sick and maybe a little more in touch with my feelings than we’d all like. And well, I’m having a crisis of faith.
It’s easy to have right now. It’s just wrong.