Monday, a few days late

On Monday Big Guy was moved to his residential facility. It was a day that even in retrospect feels practically wordless. Whatever was said was overpowered by the undercurrent of emotion. I will remember Monday as the day I cried harder and more than any other day in my life.

And so we begin the slow process of finding a new definition of normal. There is moderate relief: we are no longer waiting for things to happen. Logistics are ridiculously easier. I have decided I'm not going to feel guilty about the fact that there's less laundry, or that I can get up a little later, and that I no longer have to wonder if that emotional boulder perched on the cliff is going to come tumbling down on my head tonight. Those bright spots can exist separate from the grief, in the way you can have a light on in one part of the house and stumble about in another.

I think about Big Guy a hundred times a day. Despite all the anguish and trauma, I'm thankful -- daily -- that he is my son. I pray for him, I desperately want him well enough to come back home. But it's also my job to be thankful for what I have today.

Today I am thankful for the respite, for more time with my other children, for emotional space for healing, and for peace and quiet.These are gifts that have been given to me in the midst of a difficult time, and I am not going to refuse them by insisting on feeling bad about everything.