I didn’t want to be a reporter, or even a writer, when I was a little girl.
From the age of eight, I wanted to be an orthopedic surgeon. I never even considered being anything else. All my little girl fantasies of being an astronaut or a rock star were just that – fantasies; and I never treated them as anything but daydreams. I dedicated my life to getting ready for college and the very long time I would spend there.
My dream was derailed shortly after I got married when I got pregnant unexpectedly. I lost my job and had to drop out of college because I couldn’t afford to get there. I still had every intention of going to school and chasing my dream, it was just delayed by a few years and more children.
Then my youngest son died in his sleep. I was completely broken and I’m not ashamed to say that only my surviving children saved my sanity. It was for them that I picked up the pieces of my shattered life and put myself back together. I may be held in one piece by duct tape and prayers, but I make it work.
My grief came with all the pain and darkness one would expect of losing a child, along with a whole world of it I never even thought to consider. It tainted every aspect of my shattered world. Depression threatened to overwhelm me and every smile was a forced mask. I devoted myself to being a mother and did nothing else for two years. I couldn’t think further ahead than the current day and I lost a lot of myself during that time.
When circumstances forced me to look for a job again, I was adrift in a world of careers with no idea where to begin searching. All desire to be a doctor fled from me completely at my son’s death, as I knew my limit would be the first blonde-haired, blue-eyed two-year-old to come across my table. I worked a series of part-time jobs that brought me no joy and carried on because life afforded me no choice.