|George's masks, Sawtooth|
And then yesterday the OCD that has been peeking out of late but not really rearing its head did so, rendering George simultaneously paralyzed and frenzied.
And I rubbed his back using firm pressure, and I made white noise, shh-shh, and waited.
"We have a bird," I say. "It's a male cardinal who every morning perches right there and furiously fights with his own reflection."
The oldest grins. "Why?"
"His reality is that he perceives danger, and he is choosing to not back down, even if it makes him kind of an idiot."
The oldest becomes mock-serious, turns and nods to an invisible cardinal. "I know the feeling, my bird brother."
I have declined the next step both the neurosurgeon and the neurologist recommend.
There's a certain peace in saying, "No, thank you," even knowing it means there will be no cure, only treatment for the symptoms.
But despite what has proven to be an unremittent, dull pain, there is no denying the joy of the approaching spring, the sound of Salsa's tail thumping, George's laughter ringing through the hallway.
This is my life, and I am blessed for it.