My daughter has a rare blood disorder called idiopathic thrombocytopedia pupura (immune) which causes her immune system to destroy her platelets so she just bleeds, randomly. Her eye just haemorrhaged a few weeks ago and an entire half was filled with blood, today, five hour nose bleed.

She can feel when they're coming and she sits down with her bloody nose kit, tissues, a trash bag, a puke bucket for when she swallows too much blood and vomits, gauze, cold packs. My daughter is four. I have been able to convince myself for almost three years that yes, she is sick, but not THAT sick.

Last week we spent four days at the hospital for severe anemia and no detectable platelets. She is THAT sick. I get it now. She is getting a wish, and she is getting worse because she is that sick. We have tried every medication available for treatment of this disease. Nothing helps. Nothing fixes it. My heart is broken.

Bed

NO, I can never be a 100% mom to you my little ones. I'm done with all the babywearing-and-breastfeeding-workshops season of my life. I tried to be 100%. I dedicated my two breasts to you when you were young. That's more than 6 years (3 years to each of you) —of nipple sucking every 4 hours round-the-clock.

But I also have my own dreams. I want something more than staying with you 24 hours a day 7 days a week. It's not that I am not happy seeing your smile. But I also want to be in a different room or go out and feel how to be a real human being. Now I have to deal with these anxieties. The question of who-am-I? is creeping in. Yes, I could be very skilled about motherhood but the other set of my characters are diminishing. I'm starting to forget how to be a real human, which is more important than just being a good mother.

I long to be a real human capable of being happy on these linear events. To see that on this linear world everyone can have that wonderful experience from simplicity—simple yet anew. To witness ideas and novelties that everyone is also curious to find out whether from the inside or from the other side.

Now you are 7 and 11. I'm still here to attend to your needs and it's my choice. I need to write it so I can somehow figure out the answers that I keep on looking for.

I don't want to escape this season, I promise. You are my joy. I will be your mother until graveyard. We are related. I will always love you more than you could imagine.