Praying for clean rope

Another day.

Another phone call from Kate’s school.

Another episode.

I close my eyes as the resource teacher’s voice comes through the handset.

“Not again – my heart whispers” – and I feel tears prick the back of my eyelids.

We’ve increased her medications. Her last trip to emerge was a bust. They did nothing. They weren’t even successful in getting in touch with the neurologist.

If she had the flu, or a fever or a stomach bug I’d know what to do to make her comfortable. Being told to go home and wait for the neurologist to make a decision or an appointment or whatnot is infuriating.

I left 23 messages for the neurologist before I got a call back last time. I wonder how many it’ll take this time.

The idea of showing up with a gun or bat and demanding Katie be seen briefly skates across my mind.

An overwrought mother's mind grasping for straws.

Grasping for hope.

That pink poster with the kitten on it keeps popping into my head. The one with the logo “when you get to the end of your rope tie a knot and hang on.”

I’m trying to hang on – but someone’s greased the rope.

I don’t know how single parents with sick or disabled children do it. I’m only temporarily “single” and I’m struggling to make it through each day lately.

I feel overwhelmed by the enormity of what Kate is going through.

For what has to be the ten-millionth time I wish Rick was here with us. I can feel his strength via the computer or the phone. But what I wouldn’t give for one reassuring hug...

My friend watches Kate for my appointment and remarks how different she is. I sigh. I was hoping it was just a mother’s over sensitivity for her kid. Apparently not – and it worries me even more.

As we drive home Kate sits in the back seat. An unmoving silent lump wearing my daughter’s face and clothes. At home she takes a few bites of food before walking away from the table and plonking down on the couch. Her appetite is gone. Not a good sign.

It only takes a few minutes and she’s asleep. A deep and healing sleep, I hope. I search her face for indications she’s uncomfortable or in pain. A closed book is my silent girl. Not giving up her secrets today.

I close my eyes and let the tears fall.

“God, if you’re there, I need help.”


Day 167