"Call me tonight, damn it". When you hear those words from one of your best friends, it may be a sign that maybe you've been a tad too reclusive. If only I had a dollar for each time in the past two weeks that one of my messages said something along the lines of "call me back, are you ok, why are you ignoring me, where have you been"?
Something odd happened a couple of weeks ago after Little A's doctor appointment. I slipped into a place where I could run on survival mode; I've been there before, so it wasn't as though I was completely lost. During one of her tests when Little A was sobbing and trying to battle against the restraints used to keep her still, the nurse looked at me and said, "Is there someone that I can get for you from the waiting room"? I've answered no to questions like that for two years now, but for some reason, when this "no" escaped my lips, so did a part of me. I've felt like I've been navigating through a bad dream, knowing that I needed to move, but unable to do it, perhaps paralyzed with the fear of what the tests could bring, or the great responsibility that I face alone each day.
Instead of a typical vacation, I went somewhere cloudy and quiet without any friends so that I could spend my time alone. I had all my luggage shipped ahead of me and it was unpacked when I got there. No one put chocolates on my pillows or offered me another margarita, or gave me directions to some place great to see. The beaches that I walked were cold and desolate, but I feel much better having walked them by myself. The best part of this journey was the travel home; a doctor stamped my passport with the words, "she's perfect" and sent me on my way. When I arrived home, my laundry was done and luggage tucked away. I wasn't even sure that I'd been gone until I got a postcard that I had sent to myself. It said, "Welcome Home".