You obviously can’t talk. I read your June 8 blog. I have OCD, so I am fighting the urge to continually, frantically call you. I will stop now. I am sorry. Just so sorry. For the little boy, for the littler boy, for Joe, and for you. Sorry doesn’t help though. It doesn’t put a band-aid on anything. You know a major change needs to be made, but you need someone to tell you that it is ok. Or even, what the hell to do.

I called you the day before the biopsy, because I would be at my mom’s and I thought I might need a drink with someone afterwards (I was right.) Then I proceeded to leave my phone in the minivan (we drove the blue car) and missed your call back. I didn’t want to bother you. Little did I know I would proceed to call you seven times because my worry shifted from Afina to you. I guess it helps to worry about sometone other than the elephant in the room for a while. Al ended up meeting Jon and I that night, at the last-minute (after AI stopped crying.) Her date stood her up again. SO it worked out-LOL!

When you first called, you were checking on Afina-right? I will just briefly tell you that I am in la la land as well. I can hardly breath. She seems fine. Except for the nightly stomach pain. She plays catch outside with dad and sis. She plays the piano almost constantly; she says it is the only time she feels relaxed. But, nevertheless, at the biopsy, they found something “surprising.” I love surprises-not. They weren’t even checking her stomach, but there, as clear as day, is a perfect, not-so-small, cut. Probably ulcers. She is nine. nNd as we speak I am yelling at her. So helpful of me. I suck. We are considering a raw foods diet with only fruits and vegetable. I am going out to buy the food dehydrator and the food processor today. There is so much more, and I am so depressed. But I will spare you. I can only imagine how you are feeling right now. I just wanted to fill you in on why I have been extra spazzy.

I don’t know what it is for you, but for me this is it: Two things (among others) #1: when is it going to fucking stop?!   Everytime the phone rings it is a new diagnosis. We are exhausted and confused and scared. #2 I am in mourning too. It is a death of her normalcy. I have been saying that sentence for days now. Everything I tried for, to make my children as normal as I wasn’t, is over. It will never happen. I married a teacher, moved them to the suburbs, shaved my underarms, signed them up for dance class, and became the girl scout leader. But children who eat only celery and apples, get biopsies every five minutes, have asthma, OCD, and a bazillion other issues are just not “normal”–whatever the heck that means!

I am tired of fighting, being angry, scared, mean, crazy, nasty, depressed, pathetic, weak. I am angry on behalf of myself, my children, YOU, your children, and all other parents and children who are angry ,confused, and sad.

I am sure none of that helped you in any way. So I will just add: Somehow, someday, everything will be “ok.” It f-ing has to be. It’s just gotta.

Love, Katrina-weena 🙂

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