I haven't been by in ages. I've thought about it many times but so much has happened since I last wrote--too much. It feels like it oughtta be 2015 by now, at least.
In the name of telling a long story shortly, I'll keep to the meat of it. My soon-to-be ex-husband got a nasty lawyer and had me and Julian thrown out of the house. The hearing for temporary orders was on February 19th. The judge gave us until Feb. 27th at 6:00 p.m. to be out. I was asking to be allowed to stay until the school year was up. I was in the middle of a 12-hour semester (and trying to figure out how/where to work part time) and Julian was in school, an art program, and registered for the local spring soccer team. (I should mention here that the ex owns four other residences. Yes, aside from the one Julian and I were living in; the one all three of us lived in before he took off. It's also a good place to remind you that Julian and I left the home we had made in my grandmother's old house, with no option to return.) That's pretty much all of that story. Well, maybe not. I may choose to bitch more about the other details, but it will be later because that sorry sack and this shitty divorce became the least important things in my life when, a few days later...
February 23 changed everything. It was a Tuesday and it snowed, I'll never forget the day. That morning, Julian and I pulled over on the way back to his school from the imaging clinic in Austin where he had just had an MRI. It was snowing! It doesn't happen around here; the last and only time I've seen snow was in kindergarden, 1985. We stopped and watched for a bit. I took some video of it on my phone. I dropped him off at school and went home to start packing.
Two hours later, the pediatrician called and told me he was referring me to another doctor; a neurosurgeon. I said no, no, no, no.. I don't know how many times or in how many pitches or in what range of volumes. I said no. And I meant it. But it didn't work; my disapproval didn't change the story the MRI told. "He has two arachnoid cysts on his brain, and because of the size of one of them, we you need to bring Julian into the hospital. Today. They're expecting you at the Dell Children's Hospital in Austin."
If you're a mom, you don't need me to even try to describe all the indescribable feelings that coursed through me, mercilessly, one after another and simultaneously--driving the inner chaos and fear and pleading into an agony that felt like it would split me wide open and spill all of me out onto the dirt. What an incredibly maddening and visceral reaction my body and mind had. The doc stayed on the phone with me. He knew I was all alone and what was going on in our lives. He was just as afraid I'd split open as I was. I drove and talked and cried and listened to every word, trying to achieve some shred of understanding about this crazy thing I'd never heard of nestled in my son's skull. I remember telling to the pediatrician to tell me some good shit, even if it was bullshit, 'cause I needed some good shit right then. I used those words. God, I remember some of the pieces far too well for comfort.
When you have a story like this, you can hardly make the long story short. It's all the details that matter then, that make the story. It's the details that change your life, that ultimately change you. And I need to include the details. I need to include the moments I lived through, that Julian lived through, that I didn't know how I'd make through. All those moments that I still don't know how I got through. I need to tell them. I decided it's the best therapy I'm going to get. If I had insurance, I'd see counselor to help me with the after tremors. Alas, there is no insurance card in my wallet.
I'm tired now and need to study. This is not a story I'm going to get out all at once. It makes me shake to recall it. But, I'm totally not gonna leave you hanging. I'm not aiming for a suspense here. Julian is home and he's quite good. That's the last line of the story for you. I will fill in the middle bits in manageable installments, whether they are read or not. I imagine, lovely stranger, that you understand.
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