oxygen

I should be doing a lot of things right now. I need to sift through my husband's medical records, find proof of his brain injury and details of "how it affects him" and send them to the Disability Student Services at his new community college. I need to scan craigslist for cheap, functional, not-too-old, not-too-ugly, dining room chairs, because our family of four has three chairs and I stole one of those for my desk chair. I need to find my husband's VA GI Bill eligibility letter or request one somehow so it is here before next Thursday when he has a veteran's orientation at his new community college. I need to unpack the boxes that are all over our bedroom - the only room in the house that hasn't been unpacked in the two months we've been in our new house. I need to write. I need to write. All those other things I am supposed to do, need to wait, because I need to write.

I need oxygen. My life is a plane ride. Sometimes the cabin loses air pressure. Sometimes we all need oxygen and I have a decision to make. Am I going to try to put an oxygen mask on my husband? Or one of the children? Which one? Or am I going to put on my own damn oxygen mask first? Does putting my oxygen mask on first make me selfish? Does choosing to ensure my survival first mean I am a horrible wife and mother? Someone who would choose her own life over that of her children? No. I have to remind myself: No. Putting my oxygen mask on first means I will have the strength to take care of everyone else. If I put a mask on one of my children (which one?), I will probably pass out before I get those elastic lines taut against their chubby cheeks. I will not save them. If I put my mask on first, I will have my wits about me. I will be able to save us all.