Do you know what sound your heart makes when it is being ripped out?
It’s a guttural sound; primal almost.
Initially disembodied; until eventually you realise that sound is coming from you.
I found that out today.
I took Little H for respite today. A daycare session, a chance for us both to chill out, relax and have a splash in the hydrotherapy pool. I wanted time to read, H I think was looking forward to being fussed and cuddled and stroked by the nurses.
And that happened. And it was lovely.
But something else happened too. Something that caught me unaware. Something that punched me full on in the stomach, winding me, leaving me gasping for breath. Something that reminded me that I’m using a “Hospice”.
Many people reading will already know how worried I am about the future, but for the most part I bury those thoughts, or rather bury my head in the proverbial sand. When things are well, I can relatively easily go about my day to day life without thinking about, or more specifically worrying about, ‘the future’. I look at Little H and I see a smiley beautiful happy little boy and I know the doctors, consultants, specialists ... they are all WRONG!
Mostly, that works for me. That’s how I get through day to day. I’m not a martyr. I’m not amazing. I’m not strong. I’m a mum. That’s it. And a lot of the time I am in denial.
And sometimes, every so often, I am caught unawares, and reality likes to give me a cold, hard, slap around the face.
Like the time our Paediatrician took us to a separate room to ‘talk’ while H was in HDU and explained how serious his type of epilepsy was.
Like the time I had to resuscitate H on the side of a dual carriageway.
Like the time I read a form in his files (serves me bloody right) that said, clearly printed in black and white: LIFE LIMITED AND LIFE THREATENED.
When I sat eating dinner next to a lady planning her son’s funeral.
This post is written as part of the #definenormal blogging challenge courtesy of the lovely RenataBplus3 from Just bring the chocolate.
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