The past two nights, sweet baby Nate has woken up at 4:00 am and decided to throw a little fiesta for two. These little parties of his last around two hours and include lots of giggling, fussing, crying and drinking (him not me although if he does it again tonight, that might change).
Obviously, there is nothing good about being woken up in the middle of the night and forced to stay awake in the dark morning hours. There is something even worse than just being awake in those early, silent hours... the thoughts... the memories...
This morning as I listened to him fussing and moaning for hour after hour, the memories started flooding in. It was like being an uneager passenger at a drive though movie theater that features all of the worst memories of the best person you've ever known.
I remembered her pain as the cancer drugs poisoned her body and the seizures racked her weakened frame. I saw her struggles. I watched her confusion as she struggled to make sense of her world after they removed so much of her frontal lobe. I closed my eyes as I tried to not see her wither away as her body began to close down. The tears flowed as I remembered how horrible the whole thing was.
It seems that the parents have been wrong all along. The monsters do come out at night.
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