I have what is argumentatively the worst luck when it comes to respiratory ailments. At this point I even have a sort of PTSD involving them. I run from colds and the flu and anyone who is coughing or sneezing or otherwise having breathing issues of any kind … not because I’m germophobic but because I don’t want to catch whatever they have.
About six years ago I ended up with pneumonia. Because I had young children at home, my doctor didn’t put me in the hospital, he let me go home on the promise I would stay in bed. So I did. I took my meds, called my mother to come help, did what I had to do to get better. And about three weeks later I seemed to be mostly healed.
Six weeks passed, and once again, I came down with pneumonia – a repeat performance. Different drugs, same routine. Got better.
Eight weeks passed and, you guessed it, I had pneumonia yet again.
I literally thought I was going to die. I could not breathe for coughing so hard. I broke a rib just from coughing. And I repeated the same illness two more times before my doctor finally came up with a cocktail of drugs that put me out and killed off whatever bug it was that was causing the pneumonia.
I’ve lived in fear of ever sniffle since then.
So, this time around, when I started whistling with every cough and spitting up blood, I knew it was time to go in.
I feel like a wet noodle when I get up and try to do anything. Five minutes and I melt in a puddle. My brain is toast. Trying to concentrate is impossible. Writing this is the most strenuous thing I’ve done … besides listening to my daughter threaten me, yet again, with leaving.
Every time I’m sick and the world isn’t revolving around her I get this kick in the head from her – drama queen, the world is falling apart, she might as well leave, we never wanted her, she never wanted to be here, we never loved her, shit – And every time I take it. Let it eat me up from inside out. Let her coerce me, manipulate my emotions, abuse me.
But I’ve been learning lately how to stand up for myself and not give in to abusive behavior from other people … even my own children (she’s 18 btw). So tonight there was no stopping her from throwing things at me, from screaming at me, from playing the emotional abuse card again … so I just quit and walked away. I didn’t yell. I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t stand and listen to her ranting. I told her if she wanted to leave, to go ahead and go.
And she did. For the second time since last summer she walked away into the night.
I have no idea if she’ll come back or not.
And … hell no, I’m not okay … but right now, I’m just numb and tired and fighting pneumonia.
My point in writing this – if you have a family, love them but don’t let them abuse you. Having compassion for others is great, but you must have compassion for yourself too. Life is hard. Forgive often. Love big. And have compassion …