I love my children. I know that they are adults but they are still my babies. I have no idea if I will ever feel differently, I wish I could because sometimes I ache too much because of something that has hurt them, and it pains more because I am powerless. I sat there tonight next to son’s hospital bed and could feel my eyes burning, the lump in my throat getting bigger and bigger and all I could do was to pour him a glass of orange juice. Pathetic. I’m his Mother, I should be able to stop this. I don’t want to be listening to alarms on monitors or watching fluids drip into his horribly skeletal wrists, nodding wisely as he shows me the diagrams the surgeon has drawn which explain about ileostomy.
It all seems rather unfair. He and DIL should be totally absorbed in their imminent journey into parenthood.