Life give you lemons, you make lemonade...or spiked lemonade, in my case.
There are things, there are tests and biopsies and procedures I cannot speak of. There are restrictions and foods one cannot eat. There is stress and worry and new lines appearing on a mother's forehead which were not there last month - not to mention a few new gray hairs.
When things happen to your child, and you sit, stand, lean powerless to help him, it cuts you up.
When you avoid those words, that site, those people because deep down in your core, you don't want to belong to their club, it cuts you up.
All I want is for it to be normal.
All I want is for my child to be well.
All I want is for the wait to be over because patience, oh sweet patience, eludes me now like those damned geraniums on my front porch trying to elude fall and frost. Inevitably, it's coming. There really isn't much they can do about it except to sit and to wait.
I need to take lessons from my geraniums. They get up each morning, make themselves pretty and vibrant and welcome another cold morning as if it were the middle of July. "Hello world!" They say to the bitter cold. "Here I am."
I'm trying, but it cuts me up.
Fear keeps it inside, afraid of sharing because when you do that - when you say what you're most afraid of out loud - you have to face it. And watching him go through a procedure most adults shy away from and avoid at all costs was hard enough. Seeing him fight the anesthesia, toss and flip on a sterile table and not completely lose my mind, but hold his hand and give him a thumbs up, "You'll be ok buddy," and "I love you more than the world," took just about every ounce of restraint that I had. And then he was out.
We find our way to the cruelest of places: the hospital cafeteria. Where stale cinnamon rolls and strong coffee offer little comfort to families who really just want to be somewhere private to wait it out. But I choked down the coffee, pouring each flavored creamer in it with purpose, with promise, with hope...and I waited. We waited.
He wakes up and is telling jokes to the loveliest of nurses with a thick British accent. "He's a model patient," she tells me, patting him on the shoulder as she removes the monitors and his iv port. "He's set the bar for the rest of them today and I have a feeling that they won't live up to him."
Of course they won't.
He's mine. He's ours. He loves the warm blankets he gets to take home and tells us, "If I had to do that everyday to make this go away, I would - that wasn't so bad."
And I want to shake the world.
Because this waiting sucks. It cuts you up.