These are the flowers on the trees beside my balcony.  Their scent is heavenly.  When you're on the balcony it feels like you are in the trees. 

All weekend long I've been thinking about my co-worker and I was unable to put my finger on exactly what it was that got me so worked up every time I had to deal with her.  The big guy asked me what was bugging me and I told him.  He said, "You hate injustice."  and I burst into tears.  Then I had something to work with.  I'm finally trusting my tears, tears that for years have tormented me and embarrassed me.  Now I use those tears as a gauge of how true something feels to me.

I sat in front of the computer and used the free EMDR program on youtube, thinking about injustice and then I started to ask why nobody protected me when I was a child.  My mother didn't protect me from my father.  My sister didn't protect me from her husband.  My parents didn't protect me from the boys who bullied me.  I started crying like a small child, it wasn't fair.  And it's true, it wasn't fair but life is not fair.  I am no longer a child in need or protection. 

It seems I have spent most of my life fighting what I perceive to be injustices.  I fought for my children so that my son could have help with his learning disabilities and so that Katie could get the help she needed.  I fight for my patients.  I told a patient the other day that I think of my patients as my family and you don't mess with my family.  She looked surprised and reassured. 

I think that's why I get worked up with my co-worker, the hundred and one small injustices she visits upon our patients because of her own problems, her own imcompetence.  It's not fair.  I'm hoping that realizing this will give me the distance I need to keep my emotions out of dealing with her.  Fingers crossed. 

My son came over last night after I got home from work to help me take the winter tires off my car.  In truth I helped him as he did most of the heavy work.  What surprised me was how patient he was with me and with the whole process.  He let me help, let me unscrew the lug nuts, let me take the tire off and even watched as I attempted to put the other tires on.  I wasn't strong enough to hold up the tire and get it on the bolts, but I tried and he patiently waited as I tried. 

I am not a patient person at all, so it surprises to me find out that my son is patient, at least with me.  He turned thirty last month and has his life back thankfully.  For almost ten years his life slipped away into drugs, dealing and prison.  I kicked him out of my home more than once.  I hoped and prayed that he would turn his life around and he did.  He has one year of school left and then he  will have his Bachelor of Business degree.  He lives with a lovely young woman who starts grad school in the fall to become a Speech Therapist. 

He could have so easily been killed.  For years I would listen to the news and when a young man his age was killed or shot, I would stop and pray that it wasn't him.  When he went to prison, I visited him.  When he got out I let him move back home, all the while waiting for him to grow up, to stop being stupid, to become the man I knew he could be. 

When my son was sixteen, a year before his life went off the rails, I was home alone with the kids.  It was a hot spring evening and I had put Katie to bed early like I always did.  I was usually worn out by seven and so was she.  Katie is a painter, by that I mean Katie likes to paint with poop.  That evening I could hear her in her bedroom and then I could smell her.  I went upstairs to change her but when I opened the door I found her covered in shit, from head to toe.  Her bed was covered in shit, the walls, the carpet and the door.  I looked at her and burst into tears.  My son heard me and came upstairs.  Without saying a work he took Katie by the hand and led her into the bathroom where he bathed her, washing the shit out of her hair and off of her body.  She would have been eight at the time.  I cleaned the rest of her room and a week later we took the carpet out of her bedroom and installed laminate, much easier to clean shit off of.

The memory of that night, of my son taking care of his sister, helping his mother, dealing with shit stayed with me all those years he was gone.  I knew, I hoped, that one day he would be that young man again.

Last night after we changed the tires he asked what I was doing for supper.  I told him just barbecuing some meat.  He asked if I would mind if he got a steak and joined me.  I didn't mind at all.  It was nice to have his company, to spend time with him.  He's my son, my baby but he's not.  He's a man with his own life and now it's him helping me.  How strange.