Total Head Case.

Yesterday I experienced one of the happiest moments and saddest moments ever.

First, the happiness.

After just under seven days of hospitalization, and having the last tubes and catheters removed by "Dr. Eye Candy" as she called him, my mother left the hospital, clad in a fluffy white bathrobe and slippers, and clutching a hospital pillow to her midsection as a splint.

"Make sure you tell your patients to splint their surgical site," she instructed while grimacing as she entered the van, "it makes it easier for them to move if they're braced against something."

Helloooo, Dr. Eye Candy. Way to pull those JPs out of Sharon's belly with a smile.

This is the woman who asked me about EKGs and SA nodes while waiting to be wheeled into surgery. If I make it through nursing school, I'll have her to thank.

I was hyper-cautious on the drive home, convinced that with this family's luck, we'd be T-boned by a pickup truck on Lynnhaven Parkway.

"Watch out for the light!"
"I know, I'm being careful. The last thing I want us for us to die."
"I"m not worried about dying, I'm worried about a ticket."

The drive home was quiet, only punctuated with a tearful sentence about the trauma of the past six months, or an apology for going over a bump too quickly. It reminded me of being in the car with my newborn daughter, and that feeling of concern over something so delicate being jostled in any way.

"You just ran a red light."
"Sorry."

Jim had put a sweet sign on the door, "WELCOME HOME MIRACLE WOMAN". I wanted to add "AND THANKS, SURGICAL DREAM TEAM".



Now, onto one of the saddest moments I've seen in two years. And christ, I've seen lots of sad moments in these past two years.

Ten minutes home, and she's sitting at her usual morning spot with her puzzles. Typical.

"Ed? I'm home."

He was murmuring, fidgety in his own world, hands working on an invisible key, completely oblivious to his wife, or the fact that she had been gone for a week. She curled into a chair, reaching out, and asked if he wanted to see her scar (it's pretty badass). It was agonizing. Not even a glance in her direction, or a gesture of recognition.

I can handle Ed not knowing me, but in that moment, nothing felt worse than him not knowing her.

Today is the two year anniversary of his accident. How crazy that these compounded stressors (Alison's death anniversary, my grandmother's death anniversary, Ed's accident, Sharon's surgery) all clump together in the spring. And some people's biggest catastrophes in this season are allergies.

It's not all bad, though. In spite of this ration of sadness and tumult, we've had golden times: my mother's birthday is on May 22, my brother's wedding on May 26 (six days after Ed's accident in 2013, because fuck it, the show must go on). We are a family of survivors, pushing ourselves after every nightmare scenario to be better, stronger, more resilient.

 Not Pictured: The dude who was at Bellevue's ICU. May 2013.

The only problem with being so "strong" and "resilient" is that you become impatient with the relatively small struggles of others. I had a friend in high school who couldn't come to Alison's funeral because she was devastated over her cat's death.

Her cat. I'm burying my sister and she told me about her cat.

Now, I would absolutely crumble if Lenny or Tess died, but come the fuck on, Bridget.

If I sound harsh, or callous, it's not intentional. It's that dealing with a large amount of sadness puts things in perspective. Two days ago, a bottle of wine shattered as it fell out of the van. Rather than kicking and screaming, I shrugged it off and sprayed down the driveway, joking about "alcohol abuse". 

YOLO. Thanksgiving 2014. One had cancer, and the other had a drink.

I have to pick and choose where I expend emotional energy. As I said before, it's a finely crafted "anti-armor"; I can write these words or say these phrases, and although it's all true (well, sometimes embellished a little, but mostly accurate), I am so gifted at staying calm that I can go almost completely numb. 

Sometimes, I can be so overwhelmed that I can't even feel things, on a physical level. Crazy, these learned defense mechanisms.

She had been quietly sitting at the dinner table, puttering with her cell phone. Tears slowly, steadily racing down her cheeks. A side effect of all the opioids, I thought to myself.

"It....It really hurt that he didn't know me."

I slipped next to her, again that seven year old, trying to fix something shattered within her.

"I know, Mom."

"And I can't answer anyone's stupid questions."

"I know." I was silent. I'm usually so good at finding the right words, but there was nothing I could say.

Except, "So...want to do a shot? You still have half a liver."