Adoption, and the diagnoses that changed it all (part 1) ...

I mentioned in my other blog that I one day would talk about all that has happened since I was diagnosed. It's going to take me a few posts to do it (so bare with me), as it's still pretty hard to even think about, let alone talk about it (blog about it). But I want to. For me, for those who have asked, and for whatever may come.

My family has questioned my desires to continue blogging. My desires to continue to follow the many blogs surrounding adoption that I read prior to my diagnoses. At one time I, too, wondered if I'd ever return to blogging. If I'd ever return to read the journeys of those that would one day be doing something that I desired to do. The mere thought of opening up Journey To Eme and typing something was so painful. I shed many tears. I was angry. I was bitter. I was hurt. I was even jealous. I loved reading of all the friendships that were forming, all the get togethers, welcome home parties at the airport. I breathed it all in. And I so looked forward to being a part of it. Of being able to meet face to face with those who had become my "friends." Of being able to share with others the journey to my daughter. Of being able to hold my daughter in my arms. It took me a long time to finally "jump in" and make that first home study appointment. I had already started to gather a few of the things I needed for my dossier. As that day in November grew closer my heart grew happier. I was actually doing it. I was taking that leap to bring Eme home. And then suddenly ... suddenly it was ... yanked out from underneath me. Gone. No meeting friends from afar. No get togethers. No welcome home party. No journey. No hope. No dream. No Eme.

I remember that moment all too well. Each breath I took felt like my life was being sucked right out of me. I tried to speak. I tried to cry. I tried to move. Nothing. Time froze all around me. I knew people were in the room with me. I could hear the sobs. I could hear the gasps for air. I could hear the sighs. Yet I couldn't see anyone. And I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. I was completely numb. In a daze.

Once the initial shock of it all wore off the pain took over. My whole body ached. From the moment I woke to the moment I slept I hurt. Ached. For Jordan. For my Mom. For my daddy. For my family. For Eme. For me. For what was. For what never would be.

I could feel the dark cloud slowly start to surround me. I wanted to fight. But I couldn't. I was slowly being swallowed by the darkness of depression. It consumed my entire being.

I lay in a chair, in the infusion room at UCLA Medial Center, watching the nurses move all around me. A throw up container sitting in my lap, a styrofoam cup half full of water on the stand to my right, the IV pump that was forcing deadly chemicals into my veins to my left, the taste of blood in my mouth because my lips were so dry and cracked. My heart was beating fast under my shirt, and I was struggling to catch my breath. It felt like my life was slipping away. Tears fell onto my cheeks. I was at the lowest point in my life. I closed my eyes and under my breath I prayed to die. I BEGGED for Him to take me. I couldn't do it anymore. I was weak. I was broken. I was tired of the pain. I just wanted to go home.

To be continued ....