a new october.
I was tempted to leave the idea of October behind without so much as mentioning it. The month of anniversaries, first dates, the month Taylor and I got engaged. More recently, the month of ambulance rides, diagnoses, the birth of our daughter. How appropriate is it, with the change of leaves & nighttime temps, comes a new season of perspective, a chance to start new and move forward with life at the same time.
I've been afraid of October. I have been afraid to acknowledge it for the last 24 days. Like that flu shot I got a few days ago, the stinging, burning reality that is Truncus Arteriosis. The truth of cold & flu season, glaring me in the face. The last thing I want for our family, for my little boy especially, is a trip in an ambulance or the poke of an IV line. It's bad enough that we have a scheduled visit coming up, with a stack of papers waiting for us to sign, acknowledging the "risks." Somehow, October has a way of being a slap in the face and a glimmer of light at the end of a long, cold tunnel. October has a way of delivery bad news in the most glorious way possible. October is the chance to crunch leaves beneath our feet and swallow the jagged pill of accepting that our life is less than perfect.
I would be lying if I didn't admit that I wasn't terrified. Elliott.... I still worry about him, all the time. I still worry about losing him. I still feel afraid that our life will be dictated by one little piece of missing tissue. I know that for the last two years we've overcome some crazy things and that we will continue to overcome them, but it is next to impossible to shake out an entire season of worry in the first several attempts.
It's funny, though. As I typed this, my sweet boy, who should be in bed, came over and put his hand on my arm. He looked up at me with those dark, soulful eyes. Brown eyes. As if to say in his own innocent way that a new season is nothing more than a brand new start. Not a dying season, but a new one; one that's shifting and changing and bringing the gift of hope. A mom of two who often feels like she's drowning in worry, wrangled by one small hand and a set of dark eyes.