Blog posts by mommy Shana and mommy Jess

Three children, two moms, one C.P. diagnosis....and a partridge in a pear tree.

Thursday, April 26, 2012

The Fight by mommy Jess

In this place in which we live, where ice still bleeds from the cracks of boulders creating rivers perpetually frozen in time, it would seem like a good location to hone one’s survival skills. And yet we suffer the same blows and weather their impact without the benefit of this granite slated landscape’s assistance.

Pain cannot be contained. Both mommy Shana and I have navigated several odd interactions in the past few weeks that would pop the seams of any bright side bubble we could possibly fashion. Neither of us has the energy anymore to slap a smiley face on things and yet we still find ourselves smiling, laughing till we cry over Jack’s silly dance, Gus’s wardrobe, Greta’s spot on delivery of a belch in a silent grocery aisle.

Look on the bright side I hear all over the place, the siren song urging one to count their blessings is so loud I can barely hear it over the roaring din of the kid’s constant clamor. And yet, like a note intently placed to introduce a new melody, I hear another rising tune. This song holds us hostage by its tightening grasp. It has all the upbeat capacity of Adele’s newest ballad laced with Quaaludes and it’s playing on every station on the dial.

Policies being created to base college applicants on the functionality of their brains, physical therapists chastising us for making informed medical decisions about our own child, little girls dancing in tutus on stages where a spotlight will never find Greta, school boards disinterested in disability services with eyes honed on a new baseball diamond. All of them we could dismiss with a little battle, a little fight on our part. All of them left to wither and wind their way under our skin until finding the spirit to bright side these things into oblivion with logic, ethics, and reason is impossible.


What is worse is I was doing better, so much better for a little bit there. I sat by Greta’s unconscious side after her surgery and did not sob bitter tears that I know make the staff oh so uncomfortable. I watched her birthday, their birthday, approach slowly from my desk-side calendar and shoved the dread and the re-living and the replaying down so far into the pit of my stomach I laughed my way through our bungled birthday party and only for a moment, the exact minute she was born, paused from my job as assistant to her princess party to hold Greta’s hand and trace a finger over a palm that is quickly changing from the chubby fist of an infant into the slender hand of a child, completely ignoring her left hand balled into that perpetually unbreakable fist, refusing to go there. I felt, that night, like yelling “I did it!” as their past two birthdays found me sometime around 6:00 collapsed with grief crying hot helpless tears in a bathroom somewhere.

It takes a certain kind of war to fight off the chill of April, they were right about it being the cruelest month, but yet here we are still fighting but still frozen. Still working to put those pieces back together but still so irrevocably broken.

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