In which I confess my irritation

This picture is one I just stole from Patsy's blog. She took photos of us in the hospital last week. See how we're smiling?

I have been trying to compose a witty entry to amuse and delight you, but I haven't the energy.
Frankly, I'm worn out, and not a little depressed. Now, you must know that my kind of depression is not really worthy of the title. I have seen depressed people, and I'm not like that. Mine is more like a low-grade annoyance. But I have a lot of the low-grade annoyance.

Work was almost a welcome distraction today. I couldn't think, though. My brain is very sluggish. It's all tangled up in a sort of constant prayer. It's that kind of prayer that doesn't really have words to it, it's more of an ache.
Do you think I have more than the average set of dramatic occurrences in my life, or am I just a melodramatic whiner? It's hard for me to get a clear reading on that. "Forest for the trees" and all that.

Michael is no better. By "no better" I mean that he's lost another pound, and is talking about death. Don wants to know what we'll do with Michael's new room if he dies. This is really not the kind of conversation that I can apply any enthusiasm to.

I want to shop, or get my hair done. Perhaps enjoy a frivolous conversation about gossip. I'd like to think about something that doesn't threaten to crush my heart. That would be a nice change.
I was prattling on about beauty regimens as I was on the phone with Mother today. She sternly reminded me that I ought to be thinking about my Very Sick Child. As if She's so very worried, poor mom. Being a nurse, she knows enough to be scared about out of her wits.

I was reprimanded yesterday, too. A lacrosse person was scolding me for taking Don out of the tournament. "It would be good for him to be a part of that! His brother's sick, but he's not." As if I can't figure out what's best for my son.

Is my annoyance showing? Sorry.

One can't continue to get worse, not indefinitely. It's just not possible. Right? We go back to the doctor tomorrow, and they should say something helpful. If they re-admit us to the hospital, I am going to cry. I'm not a big crier. Mostly, if I get misty-eyed, I feel like I've shown rich emotion. But, if they admit us tomorrow, I am going to full-on sob. Hiccups and all. Of course, I might do the same if they don't.

That's depressing. Aren't you glad you read? I may be getting better at being depressed. I'm getting a bit of practice.