March 31st.
The last day before April.
Better known as my husbands birthday.
I woke up today wanting to die slightly more than usual. Which, for this time of year, is a whole freaking lot.
I woke up alone, in a hospital room, on a hard, lumpy pull out bed, where my son slept 4 feet away. Hooked up to IVs and high flow oxygen.
I didn’t wake up next to my husband, greeting him with a hug and happy birthday! wishes as soon as his eyes opened.
My 7 year old is in the hospital still, has been for almost a week now. We’re getting closer, but not there yet.
My birth son is turning 10 on Thursday.
A day I’m nowhere near ready for.
I haven’t sent his gift yet. I’ve been stuck here.
That makes me feel like a failure, a bad birth mom. And if I’m not perfect, he’ll never love me, he’ll never want me.
I don’t feel strong today.
Actually, I feel remarkably weak.
Tomorrow is Monday. Where I’ll escape this hospital for a few hours to go to therapy. It’s the only good thing about my weeks lately. My only normal. The only thing that is for me.
My therapist came to visit my son in the hospital a few times, and it was definitely one of the only uplifting things to happen here. She brought him a book and some Easter candy yesterday, since we’re still here for Easter. We celebrate Greek Easter, so it’s not a big deal…but he’s bummed about it anyway.
My family has come up once, but it was “too hard for them” and they haven’t been back.
I don’t know. I’m just in a bad head space. I will be for a while. At least until his birthday is over.