Every runner knows that if you want to compete well, you will need to run at a consistent pace: not too slow that you get behind, yet not so fast that you use up all of your energy at the beginning, having nothing left for the remainder of the race. As the weeks turned into months, and I continued caring for my sweet little foster daughter, I discovered that “frantic” was my new normal.
Every day, almost without exception, was saturated with demands on my time and attention, as well as constant interruptions to my attempts to establish a routine: the daily logs and paperwork and medicine charts that needed to be kept current; the home nurses’ roster that was in a constant state of flux and frequently had to be rescheduled; the therapists, each with their own specialty, who came to our home to work with her each week; the hours and hours spent at doctor’s appointments or waiting for the results of lab work or x-rays.
Not only was I gravely fatigued, but every week I was reminded that I was straining myself to the very limits for someone else’s child, for this angry, bad-tempered, ungrateful woman. The resentment further encumbered me, causing me to slip and falter even more.
(Please continue with Part III)