The paper is bending in my hand and he is looking at me with apology because he is an expert and knows surprise is not her specialty. She is heading for the door and I am telling her it will be quick and she will do great and what does she want when it’s over? I am folding and refolding the lab order because she is too big to pick up and if I reach for her she may push me away and I wonder if the tension in the air will weigh me down as my walk turns to a run because she is leaving for I don’t know where.
She is talking about volunteering on Friday and wearing a band-aid and why, why, why do these things happen to her? I am explaining that it is just once and what would she like afterwards and I hear the doctor say he will call the lab to prepare them and she is still talking and I am trying every trick I’ve stuffed into worn pockets but even though it is today it could be years and years ago. It could be her motioning to the fridge or ehh, ehh, ehh-ing at the front door and me holding up cheese or milk? Asking does she want to go to the park or to school or to where? She can’t tell me and I can’t help, she paces and I follow with only damage control to offer.
We are upstairs and downstairs and to the parking lot and the lab and to the parking lot and wonder of wonders back to the lab again and she is finally, finally in the chair because there is a yellow tube and yellow is her favorite color and oh-my-gosh break all the lab rules and use that yellow tube for her blood. I am glaring back at stares and mouthing the word “autism” to people carrying genuine concern and counting the tiles on the floor as she grumbles at her band-aid and wonders what do they do when people have a latex allergy because everything in this place has latex.
Clicking her seat belt she asks what is for dinner because she is talking with me now.
I tell her whatever she wants and pull out of our parking space,
because she can hear me again.
Linking up with just write because sometimes there are words you just need to string together and place somewhere.
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Thank you! xo
You are the perfect mother. Thank you for opening my eyes to a world I never truly understood before.
Natalie @MamaTrack says
Raw. Raw is the perfect word. Raw and honest and real. And scared and hopeful and determined.
And love. And mom.
Can’t wait to hug you, my friend.
You’ve done such an awesome, awesome job.
I don’t know what to say really…. you’re a wonderful writer, mother, and advocate. I’m sure that you hear that so often here but it really is true.
Thank you so much Jackie, I try my best. This was one of those days where I felt so inadequate so your words truly mean so much.
I stole your tag: “Linking up with just write because sometimes there are words you just need to string together and place somewhere.” for my first “Just Write post. I hope that’s okay. It says it well.
This was a nice read. Enjoy BlogHer. 🙂
So glad you did, and glad you linked up, I love just write.
Hmm, I can’t say that you captured her perfectly, but that pretty much describes every lab enounter I’ve had (well, not the favorite color being yellow) but certainly the angst and no, it never did any good for anyone to talk to me either. Of course, their multiple attempts to hit my rolling veins didn’t help much either.
Thanks for sharing this. You write so eloquently, I can feel your experiences.
This was so well written. The way your words flow into one another underscores the roaring in your brain and the chaos of the moment. The last line brought it all home.
The “because she can hear me again” got me too. I can feel what you felt. And the stares…oh, they should know better shouldn’t they?
I’m sorry it was so hard for you both.
How hard for both of you, those in-between moments when she can’t hear you or express that anxiety over something like this. I hope they used the yellow tube.
They did, thank goodness and that is exactly it. It is hard to watch her go through the angst of it all and know her wheels are turning but she just can’t process or be present right then.
Courtney Kirkland says
You always have a way of bringing your readers to the scene you’re describing. I (again) felt like I was right there standing by and watching the whole thing unfold. You are such an amazing mother.
Mrs. Jen B says
The words “This is beautiful” seem so trite because they only scratch the surface. But it is.
“because she can hear me again” – Always, we are there, waiting for them, needing them, to return to us.
Darcie Maranich says
Reading this, I feel like I’ve been there. I’m glad you “wrote through” what’s been on your mind. You depicted it so gracefully, though I’m sure at the time you felt anything but.
So true, my head was spinning and it was one of those times when I felt like I wouldn’t feel better until I sat down and wrote it out.
Wow. I felt like I was there. Very vivid description of your daughter’s experience and both of your feelings. Thanks so much for sharing. I took my son for blood work a few months ago and surprisingly he was ok. Well he cried but at least we were able to get it done. I wonder what it will be like for him next go round.
Hopefully easier than the time before for you and him.
Practical Parenting says
You managed to capture great stress do beautifully that you made it look easy. You are amazing. Every day.
So powerful. I am addicted to your writing because it puts me in places I’ve never been, shares your life with me, gives me understanding. Thank you.
Wow, thank you such much for such an amazing comment Jessica.
Wow, this is so raw and perfectly written. And I totally get it.
Robin @ Farewell, Stranger says
So perfectly captured. Such angst. Thanks for sharing that, Jessica.