Our kids have to grow up so fast, balancing the world upon their tiny shoulders. Now new doctors, new questions, new procedures… same old pain.
I keep telling myself she’ll talk if she wants to and no one will force her to go to a place where she doesn’t feel safe, and yet… I want to fall down, scream. I feel like tearing at my clothes… scratching at my eyes. Wailing. I want to beg for things to be different. Bargain anything. Everything. If only I could make it easier for her.
Don’t force a physical exam this time, please. Don’t casually hand her the dreaded paper gown that she’s never been able to touch all these years. Don’t ask her. Don’t chat about the weather as you touch her. My throat tightens as her eyes gently close, tears falling down the corners as she turns her head away from the reality of where she is and what is happening. Don’t push her down an alley of unhappiness, this bright ray of sunshine. My baby. Don’t touch her.
I plead in my dark, silent room tonight, and yet I know that there isn’t anything I can do to prevent what needs to happen. They need to check her to take care of her. She needs to allow it. I need to stand by and witness my child’s pain.
Let it be me.
Give me the pain, not her.
Step aside Jen, and allow your child to walk her path. That’s what I tell myself. I whisper with closed eyes. She’s strong, resilient, remarkable and ready.
But am I?