Okay, I just finished my other post and I don't wish to take anything back, because it's all true.
But it also sounds, well, distant. Detached. One of those moving, sentimental, what-I-learned sermons that always make me wonder if the person writing it had any actual human emotions.
So here's some undetached, unvarnished, unrevised truths.
I'm still scared. I'm scared that the rhabdo could be growing right now and I won't know it until scans at the end of January. I'm scared that he'll relapse and we'll have to do it all over again, only worse, with more toxic drugs and longer treatment cycles.
I've cried more since he went off treatment than in any given period during treatment. Part of it is the aforementioned fear. Part of it is relief--finally being able to let go in the deepest parts of me that I couldn't allow out earlier because if I started I might not stop and I had to be able to stop so I could take care of everyone. And part of it is the recognition of how we have all been changed, soul-deep, by this experience.
I worry that this year derailed my dreams, that somehow I lost my chance because I had to do other things for a time. Don't get me wrong--I wouldn't change that. I did what I needed and wanted to do. But that doesn't mean I wouldn't ache if I've somehow wandered off the writing path I love and can't get back.
So there you have it--messy emotions all over the place.
At least you can't say I'm not human.