Fixing What’s BrokenMarch 31, 2010 at 2:03 pm | Posted in Bun, Family, Giggles, Lollipop | 23 Comments
I know what people mean when they say their pain is “excruciating.” I know because I’m feeling it.
My cold? Is still with me. I sound like coffee percolating when I breathe. And I’m now the proud owner of an inhaler.
My cough? So bad it’s bruised my ribs. Made them pop and sear. Necessitated emergency visits to the chiropractor.
Sleep? Impossible. I sit on the couch — because lying is too painful — and close my eyes, eventually dozing off for an hour or two so my brain doesn’t shut down from weariness.
Standing, sitting, walking, bending, breathing? Excruciating.
But I could handle it, the constant feeling of being stabbed, of being unable to fill my lungs. I could handle it if it were just me. Just my mind and my body learning to cope with this temporary reality. Just me waiting for the medicine to work. Just me waiting for my muscles to heal themselves.
But it’s not just me. And the real pain, the really excruciating pain? Is in my heart.
Because I can’t know with certainty that Bun is OK. That he can handle these medicines. That my body will provide oxygen to him before me. That every little kick and tug is not a plea for help. That he doesn’t need to come out. Now.
Because I can’t hold Lollipop and Giggles. Can’t lift them, hug them, tuck them in. Can’t sit on the bed and read their favorite stories. Can’t push them on the swing, tickle them, stroke their hair. Can’t take a breath deep enough to smell their soft, soapy sweetness.
I want to cry. But I can’t. Because that makes it worse. The breathing worse, the ribs worse, the cough worse. The Pain. Worse. So I have to keep it in, keep it together, pretend to be calm. When on the inside? I’m falling apart.
My body is broken. And so is my heart.