That’s how many pounds he’s lost, according to the scale at the doctor’s office today.
That’s how many pounds he can afford to lose before he fails to thrive. Again.
That’s how many times I cried today as I thought of those 3 pounds and how they managed to slip away while I wasn’t looking.
That’s the number of things I wanted to buy for him at the local Whole Foods, where I took him after our appointment, where I wandered aimlessly and thought about all of the meals I could make that he wouldn’t eat, where I stared at the meat counter and tried to figure out just how much organic, grass fed beef it would take to bring those 3 pounds back.
That’s the number of times I thought about crawling into a corner and staying there for a while.
That’s the number of times I felt guilty for not doing enough
That’s the number of times I was reminded that some folks have it much worse and that some good old fashioned gratitude is in order
I know I haven’t been here in a while.
I’ve been so busy over here and here instead.
And I’m sorry that my first post in a month is kind of a downer.
But if not here, then where? Where do I go when this sort of day happens?
I don’t know what we’re going to do about Andrew.
The G-tube has been looming over us ever since his Cystic Fibrosis diagnosis two years ago. I’m trying to avoid it. Some folks swear by it, but for now, for US, it’s a last resort.
But I have GOT to get some weight on this child.