Late Night at the Hospital

If we go back three or four months, Jeff and I can both distinctly remember thinking about how lucky we were. Happily married, expecting our first baby and in good health - we both knew enough not to take our lives for granted. We lived each day to the fullest, remembered to laugh together, and looked forward to a future that included at least a couple of kids.

Now, I can’t help but mourn for a life that did not include worrying about whether or not Jeff will be cured of his AML, or a life that did not include graph versus host disease, immuno-suppression, and endless doctor visits. I can’t help but mourn for the loss of excitement that a first baby should be bringing us, or for the happiness that we should have been allowed to share with this new baby.

I struggle each day in a futile attempt not to feel sorry for myself. I honestly can’t think of anyone who deserves this situation less than Jeff does, and I can’t help but think of all we are missing while we whittle away the 4^th quarter of 2007 in a hospital room, wondering what sort of calamity the next day will bring.

I do NOT believe that everything happens for a reason. Some things just happen, and the only thing that really matters is your reaction to the situation. I suppose everything I’ve written today would lead one to think that I’m not responding very well. However, I’m finding out that dealing with a life-threatening illness is a lot like dealing with death. Grief, whether it’s for death or the loss of good health, is a process. You need to work through the shock, anger, disbelief and sadness before you can really move on.