Wishing for a Cry

I woke up this morning needing a good cry.

Odd, I thought. Then I remembered. Last night, leaving The Boy up playing computer games and my two youngest girls asleep (the eldest spending the night with my parents), I slid into bed beside my sleeping spouse, saying, as I usually do, I am so lucky. It's kind of a mantra. And true.

I lay there in that vulnerable time right before falling asleep when suddenly, the worms were there.

It's been a while. The holidays have kept them at bay.

And then I'm thinking about how life was really back to normal when we took her for scans last spring; as we sat in the hospital McDonalds, I told The Husband that I'd gotten to the point where I'd be surprised if something came back on the scans.

Never will say that again, never never never.

And I'm reliving it and I'm thinking that in the blink of an eye it'll be February, and time for scans again.

But somehow, I fell asleep before I could cry.

Well, no time to cry this morning. We're expected at my parents' trailer for hotcakes and to pick up The Princess. While I'm there, The Husband calls. Going to be $1700 for Bo Peep's dentist in January, another $2000 for the hospital and oh, this dentist says that it's not enough for Peep's pediatrician to okay her for dental surgery, we have to go to their doctor.

It's too much. I tear up. I blink them away and complain of allergies to my mother.

After pancakes, I take my mom on a quick errand. As I wait in the car, I check my home messages. The first is from December 17. Oops.

It is a call from a volunteer at Make-a-Wish. They want to schedule a meeting to find out what Little Warrior's wish is.

Make-a-wish isn't for terminally ill children anymore. It's for children fighting a life-threatening disease. And it's not like this is a surprise.

But still, it grabs me.

It's a gift, a wonderful gift, don't get me wrong. I'm a little conflicted. Not about whether to accept it -- Little Warrior deserves it. But whether to accept it now. She's 3 1/2. She'd appreciate it more in a year or so.

But in February, we get scans. And if all goes well, then more scans in May. And every time, our life could change. And I'd rather her be able to enjoy her wish feeling well, than be in treatment.

I come home. I want to just sit and cry, but that's hard, isn't it? Okay, maybe I have some tear-porn on the tivo. Beaches? Steel Magnolias?

No, it's loaded up with Christmas specials. I pick one -- "Noel: a couple, a diner chef, an editor, an orphaned hustler and a former priest find unexpected happiness on the holidays."

Well, that has potential for misery. I turn it on. Susan Sarandon's mother is apparently in a fairly vegetative state. I feel a bit of a tightening in my throat, welling up to my eyes ...

I sneeze.

Okay. Maybe later.