Sometimes what happens is, we go to sleep. In spite of all the pain and fear and chaos of the years since Carter’s birth, we forget. It doesn’t take long for us to be lulled into a feeling of normalcy. That shocks me, that we could live so on the edge, sleeping in shifts and dispensing medications and locking up the sharps, and then within weeks of quiet descending over our little boy, we could just relax the way we do.
But the thing, the one that lives in him, will eventually come out and grab us all by the throats and shake us hard. Sometimes, like today, there’s no warning. The only possible precipitant is the virus we’re all fighting, and I don’t know if that’s it. We never know. Whatever the cause, Carter lost his footing today. Not in a terrible way; he wasn’t violent toward himself or anyone else, but there was cussing, stomping, and screaming. He peed on the dog. How the hell do you parse something like that? What do we make of it? Thank God the dog doesn’t care.
We’re back on alert, where we should have been all along.