Justin says he has a headache. Okay, no problem. I give him water. Maybe some ibuprofen.
It was always Tylenol before. Ibuprofen does something to your blood. Leukemia patients can’t have it. I can’t remember why, but I remember Tylenol never did much for the pain.
And just like that, I can hardly breathe. A random thought memory sends me reeling back into the rooms with awful lights. Awful smells. Pain. A bag of stranger’s blood and a bag of chemicals dripping down into my child’s veins.
I am there again. And I can’t get out. I can’t get out unless I anchor my mind to something. Something good. Sometimes a good memory. But, most of the time, it is words. Words on a page force my brain from the disarray of fight or flight to whatever part is more logical. To me, the amygdala is completely unreasonable, but can be commandeered with words and sentences.
So thank you for reading my words and sentences that, even after 7 years, are still needed to quell the panic attacks, bring me back to the present and make me breathe.
Justin is not sick anymore. He is here. His eyes are full of life and he is holding a baby chick. So carefully. So tenderly. God is faithful.
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