I sat with the kind-natured assistant to our geneticist on Monday, detailing our medical history.
The path of my life…
An autism diagnosis.
Marriage and step-parenting.
Is this really me?
High risk pregnancy.
Is she truly checking every box?
I recite heart-wrenching memories with medical precision.
Speech delay, motor dyspraxia, intrauterine growth restriction, fetal distress leading to premature delivery, cerebral hemorrhage, sepsis, pulmonary hemorrhage.
One medical term after the next. All ours.
How did I get here?
Proud of my unwaivering voice and lack of tears, I sit tall as I speak.
All business, and focused on answers for the little girl spinning a doctors chair at my side.
There is no crying in baseball.
Despite my brave face and comprehensive explanations, the history I recited, the growing thud in my ears and finally the rumbling of my daughter’s cry as her blood work is drawn, breaks me into pieces.
And I can’t pick them up right now.
I just can’t.
I’m tired, I can’t wrap life up in a bow or find a life lesson in our continued struggles.
We could check every box.
I want to worry about what to bring for snack and if we’re saving enough for college and what color polish will be “in” this season, but the roar is too loud.
I’m content with a good minivan cry, an appointment-free afternoon, four living, breathing kids and a husband who can’t stand to miss bedtime.
They will me out of bed each morning, pull my hands along until I remember how to put one foot in front of the other and press my cheeks into a smile,
even when tears are running down.
Linking up with Shell for PYHO (I hope to share a silver lining soon but this may not happen until I am able to leave my pity party).
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