You know that point where you’re so emotionally overwhelmed that you become numb?
I think I’m at that point.
I’m in the shower – the phone is ringing. My friend Jenn calls me every day so I think it’s her and know that it’ll go to voice mail and I’ll call her back. Then I hear my cell phone. Then the house phone again.
I stumble out of the shower – soapy hair, dripping wet and grab the phone. It’s Kate’s school.
My heart sinks. “O no,” is the only thing that passes my lips as I’m told she’s had another episode.
“I’ll be right there,” I tell the teacher and scramble to drag on Rick’s sweats and a t-shirt. Wet hair and all I head out the door.
I don’t feel the panic that I’ve felt in previous weeks. I drive fast, but then, that’s nothing new. I’m running though all the questions the doctors tend to ask me so I can ask the T.A.
I’m worried. I’m sad. But my heart isn’t beating like an African drum. Sometimes I’m amazed at what the human body can get used to.
As I drive I leave a message for Kate’s neurologist. Something in my voice must have indicated the urgency – or my lack of patience – because I’m assured that I’ll have a call back the same day.
I reach the school. Kate is lying on a gym mat. She’s wonky. She’s off kilter and moves like she’s had too much peach schnapps.
She’s wet herself twice and doesn’t look me in the face.
This time I opt for home instead of the emergency room. They’ve done all they can at emerge. At this point we’re waiting for the MRI, scheduled for next week.
She’s silent again. A rag doll that looks like my girl.
Her usual squeal as we pull in the driveway is absent and I feel an icy dagger through my stomach. I can’t let her see me cry. It isn’t fair to upset her – she’s the one going through this. I’m just along for the ride.
As we approach the house Kate leans heavily on me. She’s forgotten how to unzip her jacket or how to take off her boots and as I kneel before her removing them I wonder how much more she’s forgotten.
I must have stared too long at the floor trying to blink back tears because she leaned down and touched my face to make me look at her.
She’s my girl. She’s not easy. She’s sometimes not fun. But she’s my girl. And my heart breaks for the things she’s had to bear. When does it end?
She wants me to cuddle on the couch. That I can do.
I hold her hand until she falls asleep and I wait for the tears to slip down my face – but they don’t come.
I’m mesmerized by the sunlight on her red hair. And how her eyelashes are the same colour. I remember watching her sleep as a baby amazed in the same way and I’m overwhelmed.
My strength has been depleted. And I feel a shift. I’ve switched into automatic. As if I’m on autopilot I’m back to going through the motions. What I wouldn’t give for him to be here.
Day 206
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1 comment:
Hi, Louise. This is Pat Miller, one of the Soldiers Angels. I live in Oklahoma and when I read your post, I thought you could have been talking about me and my daughter! She started at 13 with absance seizures but seemed to have a grand mal every 5 years. And its even tougher with your hubby being deployed. My husband was a disabled Vietnam combat vet who passed away last September. I never experienced what it was like to have him gone to war but he lived his last 3 years in a nursing home about 100 miles away. No matter how many cards, letters, emails, phone calls you get, it's just not the same thing as having him with you when you need him most...even if its just to cuddle with you, tell you not to worry, hold your hand at the doctor's office...... I have put you and your family in my prayers cause we can never have too much of that! Bless you...
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