Writing journals doesn't help me. I thought it would. The only thing that helps is a forgetful mind. And Corona. And laughter. Everything else is like taking an aspirin for a broken arm.
I hate all the seizures that Brett has. I hate the fact that he can't swallow his saliva and so he chokes all the time. I hate the constant urinary tract infections. I hate how he always looks like he is not having the slightest bit of fun. He is a shell of his former little self, and I feel awful about the quality of life he has right now. I hate EVERYTHING that he is going through.
I don't feel as depressed anymore. I really don't. I just feel drained, and pissed, and so aggravated at everything. I want to have him as long as God desires him here, but 8 freaking years is a long time to watch your child die. God, please heal this child.
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I feel as though my heart has been pierced. I have no words to offer that will ease the agitation that you feel. My heart aches with you and for you I wish there was something I could do for all of you. I wish I could trade places with Brett. It seems so heartless to say that God has a plan; that all of this is working toward some unforeseen t good. I know all of this is true, but let me be human and say that this is NOT Fair! I can suffer myself, but to helplessly watch your child suffer hurts far more. There is noting I can do other then to plead with you PLEAS GOD, HEAL THIS CHILD!
No words seem appropriate. I'll keep praying for you.... your strength, your faith, and Brett's comfort.
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