The Burn
photo cred: @michellecomptonphotography
I could feel my face begin to burn. The type of burn that would occur if you were to trip and fall flat on your face in public, or what you may feel if you actually did leave the house without any clothes on, or if you were unsuspectingly slapped across the face. And in a way in this moment, all of those felt like very real, relatable sensations for me.
The unforgiving fluorescent light narrowed to darkness around the periphery of my eyes, almost as if I might faint. As I watched his eyes narrow, his face scrunch, his head tilt, and then check and re-check — the words coming out of his mouth were almost in the slow motion, low tone one might hear exaggerated in a movie scene.
“…n e u r o l o g i s t.”
My eyes widened and mouth opened. Just a few moments prior, I had been a confident, second-time mom ready to breeze through my umpteenth pediatrician appointment. We had blissfully come in for a routine fifteen month appointment, and left with an unexpectedly heavy soul and lots of questions. Parker was fifteen months and not walking — and to us, it was no big deal. His older brother walked at sixteen months and my husband was a late walker as well. The internal dialogue of “we’ll get there” seemed to play on repeat like a reflex without regard for any real consideration for the cause.
Parker just smiled and continued to look around the room. The only sound in the room was that of the deafening sound of the keyboard typing — the pediatrician put the orders for a neurologist consultation into our chart, like a brand. An indelible stain of a workup that will always be there — one that we hope will be a mild stepping stone, and one we can move past.
Questions began to spew from my still-open mouth, none of which could be answered in this moment. Being a healthcare provider myself, though have never worked in pediatrics nor in neurology, I knew some of the right questions to ask to “rule out” anything scary. You know, like genetic disorders and tumors and degenerative conditions — the stuff no mother ever dreams of. My mind went to a future of wheelchairs, assistive devices, and fighting with insurance companies to no end (hello, anxiety, my dear old friend). There was no solace that could be had for us that day, so the pediatrician and I made a silent pact to just wait for the expert’s opinion.
***
“I’ll be there in a few! Just parking the car.”
I sent this excited text to my girlfriend, as we had planned to get together and go for a walk with our kids. We live in sunny southern California, and have both married and are raising our families by the beach. Our east coast-to-west coast origin stories have run in unmistakeable parallel, and we have forged an incredible bond as we have navigated uprooting our lives for our significant others all the way to the current joys and perils of mothering young children.
This time we have together is rare. Although we live quite close, finding the time is an ever-present challenge, as it is with many in our same season in life. That’s mostly why this day meant so much, but the truth is I had also been hanging on by a thread to talk to her ever since Parker’s appointment. You see, I’ve watched on the sidelines as she has been living her own journey with a child requiring more specialists, tests, doctors appointment, unanswered questions, and maternal worry than our first kids. I’ve watched her with sheer awe at the strength and resilience that she has exuded, and I’ve thought so much about the silent struggles she’s endured that not even the best of friend can do anything to take away. I was waiting anxiously to soak up the wisdom she had so I could now use it for myself.
I unloaded the car, the stroller, the diaper bag, and oh, the baby as quickly as I could. We began to catch up on all the things. How was preschool. How the kids were sleeping (or not sleeping) these days. How were our jobs. How were our husbands. What’s going on in the neighborhood. What do we want to do with our lives. We walked in tandem, balancing children and a dog, and our conversation flowed easily — like how the waves will always hit the shore without fail.
As we closed back in on her house after a lovely time together, I realized I hadn’t said it. I couldn’t get the words out to share with her that I was struggling. Was it because this could all be nothing, I hoped? Was it because I felt so guilty to unload this on her when it is possible that Parker could stand up and walk on his own tomorrow? Was it because I couldn’t possibly burden her, who already carries so much, with my problems too?
“I have to tell you something…” I began, and then continued to pour into her as I would only do to someone who understands.
As I finished, I felt my face burn again — this time, with hot, unintentional tears. I watched my happy child play with her happy child, and I watched her happy child stand up and walk towards me, while mine could not.
“Why don’t you go take some time for yourself? Get a coffee, take a drive. We’ve got Parker, the kids can play. Seriously, please do.” She offered.
“Oh no, I’m fine.” I lied. “I couldn’t possibly trouble you guys…”
“Go!” she said.
And I went.
***
As I conclude what is an outpouring of gratitude in this story for the friendship of my sweet friend, there still is no resolution. He’s still not walking. There is no end to the story yet — there is just another day, another doctor’s appointment, more therapy, and more hope.
While I still have much to learn, I can say with certainty that we should…
Lean on others.
Bother our friends.
Practice saying yes.
Accept the help.
