I am in the middle of experiencing several one-year anniversaries right now.

One year ago right now, I was an indefinite resident of Northwestern Memorial Hospital in Chicago.  Except for the occasional visit from family members, I was spending most of my days totally alone.

It was tough.  I was on the docket to receive a heart transplant, but just never had any idea if and when it would occur.  My life was hanging by a thread and surrounded by uncertainty.  My dying heart was a huge, grotesque remnant of what it used to be.

Lying in that hospital bed, day in and day out, tubes, needles, and wires keeping me both alive and yet, also imprisoned.

I was put on anti-depressants because of all that I had gone through.  I had to FORCE myself, everyday, to keep my spirits up. Although my son was being prevented from seeing his father, I knew that I needed to make sure I did everything I could to stay alive for his sake.  I knew only TOO WELL the pain of having a father who never cared enough about his son. I was never told by him that I was loved. He never apologized to me.  He was (and still is) a domineering figure who demands deference and obedience, even though he doesn’t deserve it.

I REFUSE to let my son believe that his father didn’t truly love him.  He doesn’t know how many nights I cry myself to sleep wishing that *I* could be there every day for him. I’m appalled, frankly, that I’m perfectly available every single day to watch him, and would do so at no cost to anyone.  But, I know it would  only be an uphill battle with her.