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21 January 2008

It feels like I'm going to be tired forever. I said that I would give a kidney to sleep until noon, but as soon as it was out of my mouth I knew that I would still be awake, waiting and listening for a little noise from a little body that I couldn't wait to see. But sometimes I just don't think I can do it, can't keep it all together. Then I have to laugh and think that really, my concern isn't so much as even keeping it all together, so much as losing really important pieces after it has all blown apart. Puzzles aren't complete without all the pieces.

Ava survived another round of needles and I guess in saying that, so did I because sometimes I think it's way harder on me than her. This time I had to hold her leg and it was awful. Because when I was standing over top of her, smiling and talking, a bad nurse with a mean needle was stabbing her in the leg. And the look on her face said you asshole. I can't believe you just did that to me. But I had. I did it to her. One of those necessary evils of being a parent. The proverbial dogma of "it's good for you". Whether it's good for me or not doesn't take the sting away. Only time does that.

Interestingly enough while at Ava's appointments I had asked my doctor if he heard anything back from the hospital and he had. I have stage one something or other - a big word I can't pronounce let alone wrap my head around its meaning. But I'll need treatment so we'll have to decide on that in a month or so. I'm not surprised. Maybe I should. Maybe I should cry and moan and say whoa is me. But I really am ok and I'll continue to be this way because that's the way things go around here. They're not perfect, but neither am I, so I suppose that's good enough because we're still ok. When I sat in that waiting room in my cotton johnny shirt with a polyester robe and paper slippers, surrounded by women that were going through the exact same thing for very different reasons, we all knew that somehow we'd be ok. And it's funny how not one of us knew the other's name but because we sat in a small steril room waiting and wondering about what happened on the other side of the door, we talked about the very most intimate parts of our lives - the joys and sorrows that were so closely intertwined that we really didn't know which was joy and which was sorrow because everything important held both. Funny how someone that you just don't know can offer such a touchless touch at the most wonderful time. How one had been trying for two years to get pregnant and was at her wits end and how relieved she was to find that someting was wrong, broken inside of her, but not broken because of her, not her fault. There are things you remember and things you forget but wondering if your broken inside isn't one of them. It's a quiet pain that hurts like you can't exlain unless you know. And somehow in that small room we all knew. Another was a librarian. She thought about going to be a teacher because she loved it... loved to learn and loved to see it in others. The third was a mom of three teenage boys. Her voice broke when she said that someting couldn't happen because who would make dinner and make them mind their manners? Who would cheer them on and nag them about homework, yell at them when they needed it. Who would hug them? And I thought about Ava and Peter and yesterday and the day before that. And I knew, somewhere, shit would happen, but it would be ok. Because it's funny that shit helps grow the most beautiful flowers and that's the simple truth of it. Shit, rain and sunshine pretty much sums it all up.

I miss Peter. I miss extra hands and good hugs that say it really will be ok even when I might say it but not believe it. But now is only a time and it too will pass. I guess that's the beauty of this silly life. There's always something more.

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being the more joy you can contain. Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?

Kahlil Gibran

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