I’m ashamed. Ashamed of the dust. Ashamed of the clutter. Ashamed that I do not, that somehow I cannot, bring myself to keep my house clean.
This afternoon, as I sat working at our dining room table, my husband just touched the dusty lamp above me, and I started coughing, choking, asthmatic that I am.
My son suffers with eczema, with asthma, as do I. Still I leave the dust undisturbed, afraid of another asthma attack.
Too ashamed to ask for help. Too ashamed to hire help. Too ashamed to let anyone in. Too overwhelmed to attack the job myself.
Now my husband Nick chokes and coughs himself, as he cleans the lamp of its dust. Thank you, Nick, for all that you do.
Chronic illness is chronic illness is chronic illness. I so wish that I had a magic wand that could make my son better, that would stop his migraines, asthma, eczema, allergies, depression, anxiety, GERD, and stop him from getting every single virus that comes to town. But, I simply cannot. I’ve taken him to numerous specialists ever since he was very young, and he still gets sick A LOT. I get tired of people expecting me to find some magic potion, simple answer or a cure. There is NONE. We treat, we manage, we medicate, but he remains sensitive. Tried acupuncture. He was not a fan. Tried psychotherapy over the years. He doesn’t find it helpful. I am exhausted. Truly exhausted.