It’s been tough lately.

I’m sure I’m allowing this to be more than what it should be. I’m just stuck.

Stuck bad.

It’s getting nice out.
The days are warmer. The sun is bright.

One of the best things in the world is waking up lazily to birdsong. Hiding under the warm covers while the chatter of nature and the wind penetrates the windows.

But I’m desperate.
I’m lonely.
I’m depressed.
Most of all, I’m sad.

And, of course, I have a list.

* It’s Mother’s Day and quickly followed by Father’s Day.
—– I am exceedingly grateful and blessed that my mom is alive. Being post-fifty, it’s a gift.

But I feel like I’ve failed her. What, exactly, have I done with my life that would provide a lasting testimony to her care and love? To her effort and sacrifice? Not really a whole hell of a lot. I’m just as flawed, needy, and imperfect as I ever was, if not more so. I don’t contribute. I consume.

Although she’d disagree, I am just a useless eater. I do not substantially produce anything – except used gauze and empty supplement bottles.

And, much like the holidays, this time of year reinforces what I don’t have. Families pushing strollers, grimacing at children tugging on their shirts, arguing with their teenagers….

I’ll never have that.
Jason won’t.

Mother’s Day and Father’s Day are Hallmark moment reminders that I’ll never be a mother. Jason will never be a father. I can’t queen my mother with a grandmother title. By siblings won’t be aunts and uncles.

It’s just another reminder of what I won’t have. Will never have.

The only thing my body reliably produces is infection, which may kill me. It causes pain. It’s bloody. It’s slimy.

This current bout is approaching nine months and won’t stop, as it’s part of my spine.
.
The last time was about a year.

If the infection were a child, I would have carried at least two to full term by now.

…. Not that I could have afforded to raise them anyway… right? Finances – the desire to provide children a better childhood than what I had — was one of the original reasons for the delay.

And, even now, I still can’t make that claim.

Hell, I don’t even know if I could afford a cat.

I mourn.
I mourn what I can never have. What I cheated myself out of. What I denied others.

Despite the good rationale, I was wrong, and I do not like the consequences.

It takes the joy out of birdsong.
The warmth from the sun.

Over the past couple of weeks, my head has been hanging lower. It’s difficult to swallow. Hope escapes me, and faith is withered.

I am the mother of infection.