cold.

I finished entering my diet plan for the day and flipped off the computer. Put my shoes next to my purse. Went upstairs and kissed my sleeping family goodbye for the day. The remains of my self-made Mother's Day breakfast were still in the sink. The cinnamon buns I had baked were left all night on the stove. I threw them out.

The basics of Mother's Day still elude us -cook mom breakfast, clean up while she rests, make her a card - but the bigger picture is still there. Mike took me out to buy a new bikini, then let me roast on the beach while he played in the water with Gavin. I laid on my towel and wheezed, each breath a flaming outline of my lungs. You should not have to feel your lungs when you breathe. When we headed out to the steak house with my mom's sweetie, he stopped at his house and threw some packets of medicine at me. I have obediently consumed them, although I have no idea what they are. Dinner was great, my dietary resolve crumbled by crab-stuffed ahi in hollandaise sauce.

My voice was still gone this morning. 2 months, 2 weeks until vacation. My in-laws have only ever known me as that Pale Quiet Fat Girl. I've been working hard to get back to what I was before college and depression and pregnancy, and I wonder what they'll say. I dread it. It's like when you're too poor for new clothes and one day show up with a different pair of pants - everybody makes a big deal to tell you how great you look, which tells you exactly what they thought of you before.

I sat in the car and listened to the end of a song. I ran my fingers back and forth over the steering wheel to feel it and remind myself I'm alive. It's funny, spending so much of life trying to feel alive. Sometimes even the heartache of failing is enough to do the trick.