When Segev was born and it began to be clear that something was terribly wrong with him the advice that we were given by physicians was, "make another baby, because there's no point in investing in this one."
I often wonder why I have such a difficult time seeing the concrete evidence of all these years of effort in fighting for my son, despite it being right in front of my eyes.
No one can say that I haven't lived in the moment of appreciation; I stood, drinking in every second in voracious gulps that only left me more thirsty. A consumption born of worry.
I proclaimed The Message, like some kind of evangelist, of what love means in the face of destitute hardship, ill health and transparent confusion, standing empty handed for years as I never stopped extending my hand in the hope for assistance.
And where there ought to be unrestrained exultation, tomorrow being Segev's 15th birthday, there is the realization that palliative love is also love.
The joy of holding him has been replaced with a quiet murmur of contentment as his heart continues beating, holding my tears in limbo with less of 'when?' and more of 'it's OK'.
His smiles fade and I punish myself, by looking at older pictures that do not reminisce, but taunt.
I realize that as he winds down I am letting myself believe there is little else; this self pity.
It will not do. He has brought awe into my life and I cannot forsake the strength of that connection.
It feels better, now, to have said these things, brought them out of the recesses of an isolated mind and be done with them. There is still time. Tomorrow, balloon's are in order.