The halls of my home are stilled, and quiet fills the air.
There’s a gentle hum in the basement that comes and goes with familiarity.
The oven has been on all night; a routine move reserved for tried and true methods for the best Sunday roast.
But these halls, the basement, the oven; they do not speak for me.
There is nothing quiet about the thoughts that wake my mind at 5:00am on a Sunday and refuse to retreat and let me sleep. There’s nothing gentle or familiar about spending the last seven days in facilities all over town trying to figure out why my 15-year-old, 6’ 2” son can’t walk up the stairs without gripping the rails or eat more than a piece of toast. Routine doesn’t even begin to make the short list of words to describe how I feel about putting my daughter on a plane with a few skirts and a toothbrush and telling her goodbye for eighteen months.
People say change is good. I support that notion when change is defined as, “Hey, let’s eat shave ice in Hawaii for Christmas instead of scraping ice off our cars in Colorado!” But the kind of change that says, “Hey! We don’t know what’s wrong with your kid and your family that you have devoted your entire life to is never going to be the same! And while we're at it we're taking Downton Abbey off the air and Costco is replacing the Ghiradelli chips with the Kirkland brand,” is the kind of change that can shove it.
I do have to be fair, though.
My phone has buzzed incessantly this week with messages and calls from loving family and friends.
There have been gentle nudges from divine intervention to remind me that this little family of mine is no accident and is never going away permanently.
I am routinely thankful for the good people who surround me and make the stresses of life easier to shoulder.
Mercifully, that is all too familiar.