a losing battle

(This blog tells my family's story. To see more, click "blog" at the top of this webpage.)

​The summer after the car accident, my doctor increased the dose on my anti-depressant and gave me two referrals, one to a psychologist for counseling and another to a surgeon for my dislocated thumb. Overwhelmed with our new normal, I put the referrals on hold, but I set aside my qualms about taking medication. I needed to stay afloat.
 
Starting high school pushed both of us to our limits. For Beth, it was the physical demands, and for me, it was working as a tutor with too little sleep. She actually liked school, in spite of tiring so easily.
 
“Most of my classmates only knew me as the shy volleyball player that I was before my car accident, but everyone was welcoming and supportive.”
 
On a cold fall morning, Beth had a low fever with congestion. Her small shallow cough reminded me of the weakness of her lungs. When I asked her to stay home, we argued, even though I didn’t want to make the call about missing another day of work. She insisted on going to school. When I transferred Beth from the car to her chair, I hit an ice patch and we slipped to the pavement. Maria helped me lift her sister into the wheelchair, but my rocky composure had tipped over a sharp edge.
           
Though I did my best to hide escaping tears, a few noticed. I said my head ached, no big deal. I didn’t lie. If pressed, I gave assurances that it would let up soon. After school, I moved a wheezing Beth into bed and rushed to give her medicine and water before she fell asleep. She made a request, a frequent one, to not let her sleep too long; a stack of homework waited.
 
Beth needed the rest more, but that was a battle I never won.                                   
 
Alone in the quiet as she slept, I couldn’t fight the heavy sadness anymore. Then, it disturbed me that I couldn’t settle myself down for what felt like a long time—but I kept trying.
           
When John arrived home from work, I shared the immediate problem: whether or not I could get through another school day without losing control. And worse, whether or not I could calm myself down when I did. More than anything else, I had to function day to day for Beth. She depended on me and I would not let anything get in the way.
 
John knew about my chronic headache, but I had worked hard to minimize and mask the guilt and depression. I didn’t want to worry him. I love many things about my husband, including his ability to be a good listener. He hugged me and asked me to quit my job at the high school and start counseling. I agreed with relief. He suggested going out to a restaurant. No, thank you. He offered to schedule a massage for me. No, thanks. While I called to set up my first session with the psychologist, John made dinner.
 
We thought that counseling would help.

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