There I am, laying in bed, thinking of the things that have changed in the past few years. The thing on my body that have stronger, things that have gotten worse.
I think, mostly, of my kids in relation to these changes.
How much longer will the weaknesses maintain before they just DON’T anymore?
I’m excited for our son. 15 is a great age for him, with college, driving and girls in his near future. The 12yo is a bubbling hot mess of laughter and hormones.
If I were gone tomorrow they’d have strong, full memories of me and our life. Before the strokes. After the strokes. But the 9yo breaks my heart.
She doesn’t remember what I used to look like. She doesn’t remember me when I wasn’t in a wheelchair. She doesn’t remember much life before the strokes changed it all.
If I wasn’t here, who’d make her giggle with jokes about her stuffed animals? Who would kiss her booboos? Would anyone think to run their fingers through her hair till she falls asleep?
I love all my kids with an intensity that’s painful in it’s vibrancy. Pride in who they are, the laughter we share, tears at the thought that I might not be here to be involved in their milestones.
These strokes have taught me so much about appreciating every aspect of life.
There’s no way to appreciate this.
There just isn’t.
I can’t think about not being a part of their lives and not want to scream in anger at the body that failed me.
Then I get out of bed and hope today is full of changes for the better.