Anybody still there?

So, I'm back.  I think. 
I need an outlet again, and you guys and the world of the blog were very therapeutic. 

So here I am.

Lets see.  Dawn did indeed get prego, and now has a special needs, medically fragile infant--born two months early to an emergency c-section with gastroschisis (intstines, liver and stomach on the outside instead of inside) and extra fluid on her brain. She is not coping with motherhood well, and I may have to make a second call to social services.

Leigh eventually was released from residential way too early.  Even the state medical director in charge of the entire system agreed she needed to stay, but ordered her released based on the rules and regs of the state system. It's been an incredibly turbulent 7 months, in which time Leigh discovered the joys of pot and has decided to live elsewhere because we will not allow her to use drugs at home. 

Danae is doing well, preparing to graduate and spreading her wings.

The babies are both toddlers now and are probably going to be a permanent addition.

I'm hanging on thanks to sheer force of will (where I got it, I have no idea) and modern pharmacology (who knew xanax was so nice?!)

Any way, I need to vent, and there are lots of stories to tell. 

A Season of Awkward Miracles

A season of awkward miracles

Leigh is in residential, and it's the private one that's 20 minutes from home, instead of three or six hours. Somehow, someone in the state's Medicaid office borrowed a soul and stamped payment approval on the local private hospital... A decision that is what is in the best interest of our entire family, but probably the antithesis of everything in their rule books. 

I was in shock, and pretty much stayed there through packing, and check in, and even all the way home the evening we checked her in. Didn't cry, didn't even tear up. 

For almost a week. 

Until the night before Thanksgiving. 
That night I had to leave a little before Danae and their older bio sister who was in town for the week, and as I walked to the car, the grief and guilt hit me. 

And it hit hard. 

I put the babies in the van, and sat on the chiiled asphalt of the parking lot and sobbed.  

And sobbed until I couldn't breathe, took a hiccoughing breath and cried more. I didn't think I could cry that hard. 

Unfortunately that let loose a torrent of emotion that I have been fighting to keep under control since then. I find myself on the verge of tears I can barely control, and the silliest thing sets me off. This tenuous grip I have on my tear ducts needs something to shore it up. I'm open for ideas. 

I know intellectually that this is what is best for Leigh and for those around her. I know that she needs this.  I also know that this is our last stand, our very own little Alamo. 

If this doesn't work, I don't know if there are any other options, anything else that might help her find an internal steady ground. 

So for now, we are visiting four to five times a week, but the pace is killing me. I know I can't keep it up, but on the flip side I have to.  

When you're already exhausted, where do you find another wind?