A Good Day

Never before have I given a timeline of our day. Not since I have been blogging has a day like this one occurred.

Just after midnight, Butterfly wakes up to use the restroom and asks, "Am I downstairs?"

I simply answer, "No." We live on the third floor of an apartment building, not in a three floor house.

"Mom, the bathroom is backwards."

"Yes, it is." What else do I say? I know the house that she is remembering, thinking that this moment is that moment.

She goes to lay down and decides to lay on the floor instead of her bed. "This is not our carpet. Ours is softer. And it is the wrong color." I say nothing, just kiss her and let her go back to sleep. All that could be said can wait till morning.

I retreat to my room and am too overwhelmed to talk to God in words just yet, but I sit with Him, inviting His presence, because I need Him so desperately. Around 2:00, I know that any day that both of my children wake up is a good day. So, I go to bed expecting to have a good day. I know the things that the day will most likely hold, but I count it a good day nonetheless.

When I awaken, a sense of dread tries to greet me. I shoo it away, reminding myself that this is a good day, still really unable to cry out to God and still relying on His presence. FigNewTon wakes up and I tell her we will skip Sunday School to allow Butterfly an extra hour to sleep since she had a rough night. FigNewTon and I begin to get ready to go, taking extra time to curl her hair and mine before waking Butterfly.

When she awakens, she is confused, and stands looking around the room. "Where am I?"

"In your bedroom." The room she expected to wake up in was painted several shades of pink.

"The colors are all wrong."

Rather than directly addressing her statement, I ask, "Which color is your favorite?" She points to a purple wall. That is the color she chose. FigNewTon chose lime green.

I have to remind her several times to do basic things to get ready to go. She chooses a dress to wear, a pretty yellow one that matches the bows in her hair. I wonder how she knows what day of the week it is. But then again, FigNewTon and I are both mostly ready to go, so maybe it was deduction.

"Which toothbrush is mine?"

FigNewTon goes into the bathroom and retrieves it for her. This is familiar ground. I thought things were supposed to become comfortable as they become familiar. Rather than take the time to explain things to her or show her anything, FigNewTon fixes Butterfly breakfast and grabs both Bibles. These details can be dealt with later. She tells FigNewTon, "You are too big."

FigNewTon responds, "I'm OK with that. I can be too big."

I ask her to walk with me down the stairs, unsure if she is dizzy and not wanting to ask. These episodes are usually accompanied by dizziness. They are also usually accompanied by a recent bump to the head. I cannot remember her hitting her head, and I pay close attention to these things. She puts her arm around my waist and says in a confused tone, "Either you have shrunk or I have grown."

I smile sadly and say, "You have grown dear."

"Overnight?"

Rather than answer her question, I ask a question I know the answer to, "How old are you?"

"Eight." I don't tell her she is fourteen. I am not quite sure what to say or do or how to proceed, so I say nothing. Taking a step backward never seems to get any easier.

When we are almost to the car, I ask, "What grade are you in?"

She acts as if the question gives her a headache. She scrunches her eyes and thinks really hard and answers more in a question than a statement, "Fourth?" Again, I say nothing.

On the way, I ask her where we go to church, knowing what she is going to say and that I need to prepare her for her expectations not to be met. I simply say that we are going to a different church today and we will be there all day. I add that she is to call E's dad Pastor. As we are pulling into the parking lot, I tell her she doesn't have to call him Pastor if she doesn't want to. I don't think she called him anything all day. To the best of my knowledge, she didn't address anyone by name except E and Mrs.N.

During church, I have to remind her to be quiet and to sit with her knees together because she is in a dress. Both of these are repeated so frequently that I am not sure I heard the sermon. My mind and heart were otherwise occupied, as well. She sang the songs, but not as if she were engaged and singing songs that are familiar. Rather, she read the words on the screen while we sang.

After service, an announcement is made that the youth pastor and his wife are leaving, they have received a call to another ministry. The youth are going to lunch with them. FigNewTon goes. I don't see the benefit in sending Butterfly. There is not a flicker of recognition on her face when she sees them. Later, when she remembers who they are, she will regret this moment. She could not change it, but she will wish it had been different. You see, she loves PastorE and Mrs.P dearly. Lunch was a time for all of the youth to hang out with them after hearing the news. She was, at this time, unaffected by the news.

I feed her and lay her down to rest in a nursery. I take a moment to breathe and begin to prepare snacks for VBS. During the afternoon, I get a chance to talk to my friend, N. When N and I talk, it is usually in snippets as we go about the tasks that need to be accomplished.

I tell her I cannot imagine dealing with Butterfly's brain issues at any other church we have ever been a part of. This truly is the place we need to be. For a myriad of reasons.

I tell her what I have decided about the qualifications for a good day.

I talk some about Mr.R and how the songs affected me today. (Our focus at church this month is heaven.)

I ask, "How many times am I going to have to teach the same thing over and over again?" Butterfly had just needed instructions on modest behavior while wearing a dress. Specifically, not to play with the hula hoop where gentlemen could see her. This after explaining multiple times that she needed to kneel if she wanted to draw on the sidewalk with chalk so no one could see up her dress. These are things that she had internalized prior to the brain injury and had re-mastered since January.

Her response, "As many times as you have to. Remember, this is a good day." Now, that is a true friend. Someone who can hear what I have to say and remind me of it when necessary.

It is bedtime by the time we get home. The girls get a snack. Butterfly asks, "Where did we buy a zucchini?"

It is not completely dark, so I decide to show her the garden. She is filled with wonder and asks repeatedly, "Is this ours?"

FigNewTon and I repeatedly say, "Yes."

We go back inside and she kisses me before bed. She sees the Rubik's Cube that we picked up at a garage sale. She spent quite a bit of time trying to solve it yesterday. "Is this ours?" Her voice is filled with awe.

I take a moment, once again, to breathe and begin typing this out.

"Mommy, can you hold me?"

"Yes." A few minutes later, I ask, "What are you feeling?"

"Confused."

"Why?"

"Because nothing is like it is supposed to be."

I understand, but just in case, I clarify anyway, "You mean like the color of the bedroom?"

"Yes."

I remind her that I am still here and ask her to trust me that this is our home. She is quiet for a while and then tells me her sister asked her if she had her light bear. She stated she didn't know she had a light bear. I find it and turn it on for her. She is amazed. That she has it. That it turns colors. She falls asleep holding the bear while I am holding her.

So, by the definition I decided upon last night, today was a good day. And tomorrow will be, too. Then why do I feel like crying?