So this is morning’s disaster, or why parenting with a chronic illness isn’t as simple as all that.
The Chicklet cried sick. Tummy trouble, gastro. The same stuff. She spent most of the night with me, because she was too anxious to sleep alone. All because of the possible surgery, which I have reassured her over and over is unlikely to happen. No amount of telling her to put it out of her mind works. She isn’t even consciously thinking about it, in fact she is consciously trying to think about other things, but she still has that revolting nauseous, churning feeling, and a strong feeling of impending doom.
Anxiety. Doncha love it?
I know how she feels, and it feels horrible. But she needs to work through the steps and stop feeding that feeling. It’s the only way.