The neurology appointment is coming up, so I went back through the footage.
This is part of the routine. We have a camera in his room as part of how we monitor his seizures at night and into the morning. I check it most days, usually just the early hours, scanning for the telltale movement and sound that tells me what kind of morning we’re starting. I know what I’m looking for. After twelve years I can spot it quickly.
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He comes home on Sunday.
I’ve been counting down in a way I didn’t expect to. Not dramatically, just the quiet awareness of the days getting smaller. Six weeks is a long time. Longer than I thought it would feel.
I know why he went. He needed time with his mom, and I wanted him to have it. I gave him that space without reservation. We talked every day. I want him to have a good relationship with her. That matters.
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I’ve been listening to a book called Mattering. One of the early chapters is about the weight that comes from someone depending on you, and what happens when that weight disappears. The author tells the story of a woman who cared for her elderly mother for years. When her mother passed, she didn’t just grieve the loss. She grieved something more specific. The absence of being needed in that particular way, every day, by someone who depended on her for it.
I recognized something in that. Not the same loss, but the same shape.
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So much of my life runs on routine.
On weekday mornings I wake up early without an alarm. I let the dogs out and feed them, then head to the basement to work out. After, I make coffee and go upstairs to write, the dogs settling into a chair or the couch in the office while I play my writing playlist.
After writing I shower and get dressed, then go back downstairs to pack lunches, swap yesterday’s pill container for today’s, and refresh my coffee before starting my workday.
How the night went determines when I wake my son. I go into his room, dogs close behind, and we sit on his bed. The dogs start licking his face. I make silly jokes. He pretends to still be asleep even though I can see the corner of his mouth starting to curl. Then he wakes up.
I work while he has breakfast and gets dressed. We get a song or two in on the way to school, then I head to the office. I leave in time to pick him up and finish my workday from home, then dogs, dinner, cleanup, bed.
Sundays are for medication, pills laid out on a paper towel while I drink my coffee. Spaghetti Sundays. Taco Tuesdays, though it’s usually quesadillas.
On weekends I play tennis. When I’m done, I take a longer route home than the one I take to get there, specifically so I can stop by Wawa for a soda. Soda was always a big treat for him when he was on keto, and it’s a concession I still make even though he’s on a regular diet now. Wawa is special because he can get a larger size and mix flavors in the machine, usually some combination of Dr. Pepper varieties.
I played tennis today. I found myself taking the long way home out of habit. It wasn’t until I saw the Wawa sign that I remembered he isn’t home. He’s visiting his mother out west.
There was no reason to take the long way. No one waiting for a soda.
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