School days, school nights

Week three and I want to quit. 3 out of 5 mornings this week. What am I gaining? Should I send him to school this morning knowing he has been up since 2 again? I've taken him everyday this week but my resolve is faltering. I lay on the floor watching the minutes tick by listening to his anxious breathing and advising him to visualize good times and fun places. I glance over at my 3 year old in his toddler bed, the bed Ben painted with pink sparkly nail polish approximately 4 days after leaving the hospital on hospice. He is sleeping peacefully with the same blanket he had  the night I came in at around 2 a.m from the hospital and picked up his 2 year old self and sat down on the floor and cried. And rocked. And cried some more. Same curls, same beautiful brown skin, now though he sleeps with Ben's doggie that he has claimed as his own. He's grown a couple of inches in height since then and a couple of feet  in attitude. He is beautiful. He is scarred but not broken. I think of mental hospitals. I think of the neuro-whatchamacallit that we have an appointment with soon, but not soon enough. I anticipate my alarm going off in the next room. I try to cry quietly just in case there is any chance of my oldest falling into sleep. Scenes from the movie Beautiful Mind and Shine scare me and I wish I had never seen them. I glance at my 7 year old tossing and struggling not to obsess about his breathing. He is beautiful and he is broken and trying to hold his little 7 year old pieces together with all his 7 year old might. How long, oh Lord, how long?