Once upon a time, precisely 3 years and 8 months ago, Elisabeth was born. Fresh and pink and small.
Of course, I knew then that she would turn out different from the other children.
Sometimes I would think about the future - try to imagine it. It was never something that I dwelt on too much, but thoughts would cross my mind: What will it be like when she gets bigger? How disabled will she be? How hard will it be for me to care for her? Etc. Etc. Etc.
And suddenly, that time is here. The time where those questions are beginning to receive answers.
She is far from grown, but she is big. And because she is so big and because I am her sole mode of mobility during the day, I am in pain. Continually.
In fact, I am so used to being in pain {lower back} that last week, when I saw someone get into their car, I actually grimaced, imagining how painful the motion of getting into a car is. Of course my thought lasted only a split second before I reminded myself that most people can do things like get in and out of a car without having to say, 'ouch!'
And, for the record, I am not exaggerating. (It even hurts to sneeze.)
But yesterday, as I carried Elisabeth out to the car, taking careful steps and fighting through the pain of each of those careful steps, I whispered to her that she is worth it. That I will live the rest of my life in pain if I have to. I will care for her and love her and protect her with my life because she is my angel, my pure and perfect angel.
And when I think of it in those terms, I find myself saying, 'eh, what's a little pain, anyways?'
Of course, I knew then that she would turn out different from the other children.
Sometimes I would think about the future - try to imagine it. It was never something that I dwelt on too much, but thoughts would cross my mind: What will it be like when she gets bigger? How disabled will she be? How hard will it be for me to care for her? Etc. Etc. Etc.
And suddenly, that time is here. The time where those questions are beginning to receive answers.
She is far from grown, but she is big. And because she is so big and because I am her sole mode of mobility during the day, I am in pain. Continually.
In fact, I am so used to being in pain {lower back} that last week, when I saw someone get into their car, I actually grimaced, imagining how painful the motion of getting into a car is. Of course my thought lasted only a split second before I reminded myself that most people can do things like get in and out of a car without having to say, 'ouch!'
And, for the record, I am not exaggerating. (It even hurts to sneeze.)
But yesterday, as I carried Elisabeth out to the car, taking careful steps and fighting through the pain of each of those careful steps, I whispered to her that she is worth it. That I will live the rest of my life in pain if I have to. I will care for her and love her and protect her with my life because she is my angel, my pure and perfect angel.
And when I think of it in those terms, I find myself saying, 'eh, what's a little pain, anyways?'
