I spent the day with Tyler yesterday, but there are some events I should mention first. I was on my way to breakfast with Kelly, Tom, and Mallory when I was rear ended. I have never been so proud of myself and so disgusted in myself at the same time. To sum up a story some of you will cheer at while others will be disappointed with: It wasn’t his car, it was his parents. He’s a spoiled little rich boy. I judged him the moment I saw his, “Abercrombie” tee-shirt. I swore at him. I made him cry. He didn’t ask me not to call the cops, not once. My car is fine. His parent’s car is fine. His first name was Kyle. I explained to him how when the cops came they would ticket him, and for the next five years of his life insurance would be hell. He cried harder. He asked me if I was paying for my car. I told him I was still making payments. I told him my car was fine when he said he was sorry for wrecking my car. I then told him I wasn’t going to call the cops and that we should just get out of there. For some reason that made him cry harder. He was still outside crying when I pulled away.

I am proud of myself for not killing this kid. And because years ago I may have been inclined to call the cops JUST to give him a ticket. I am angry with myself because when I saw his tee-shirt and car- I was filled with rage. I couldn’t even suppress it. I am proud and upset with myself for yelling at him. I am disappointed in that I am proud I made him cry.

I came home and watched Tyler beat some Resident Evil 2, sat with him and painted my nails and toes. He picked the colors. I like them too. We biked to the mall, roamed around, and then sat in Target talking. Before that, my mom and my sisters stopped by, and the girls fell in love with my Polaroid camera.

We were talking about my Syncope and the tilt table, when my mother made a comment like, “What the worst that could happen? You could die, that’s about it.”

For those of you that don’t know me- I am terrified of death, I always have been. On good days I only think about my loved ones leaving me two or three times. Tyler laughed when she made this comment and I smiled. About four minutes later, I look down at Kimmi and she’s picking at a hole in her jeans. “What’s wrong, dear?” I say.

“I just can’t stop thinking about it.”

“About your bruise? Aren’t you proud of it?”

“No… about…”

She’s just sitting there. Poking at her jeans. “About what, honey?”

“I don’t want to die.” She said.

She is five years old. She is five years old and thinking about dying. I cried on my inside, but tried my hardest to console her on the outside. I just kept saying to myself, “She is only five, she is only five.”

I understand that we are related, but I thought I was the only one who as a kid was plagued by this. Who is still. It was comforting and disturbing at the same time. Chrissy never had thoughts like this.

She is five years old. My heart bleeds for her.