I'd just gotten back home after dropping the boys off at their friends' house for a play date this afternoon when she fell in the kitchen. I initially thought she was being silly, but when she stood up, she was very obviously disoriented, upset, and --to my surprise and alarm-- bleeding from a gash on her eyelid.
Longish story shorter, I took her to the doctor and she's okay; simplest version is that she stood up too quickly and fainted because her blood pressure didn't adjust to her change in position. She was instructed to never skip meals and to make sure she stays hydrated, and that was that.
Kind of. Given our history, I lose it a little whenever Abby, Isaac, or Brady does something strange that could potentially have neurological roots. The first few years after Logan died, I agonized over every single twitch or tremor I saw from any of them, and it nearly drove me nuts. So though I stayed outwardly calm this afternoon, I worried on the inside. But even as I worried, I noticed something: I wasn't as worried as I'd gotten in the past. I didn't feel panic rising up in my chest and the room didn't feel a little too small and a little too short of air. I was concerned, of course, because that's what moms do. But I wasn't in panic-mode. And that's a big deal to me.
So today, I'm thankful for progress that I didn't even realize I'd made. (And for prayers. Those are good, too.)
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