What I Do Remember

When I think back to last year a this time, I really have a hard time isolating events. I know I did stuff. I know that eventually I showered, got dressed, and left my room. But what in the heck did I do and when did I do it?

I remember going to Quinn’s soccer games. Without fail, my parents would pick me up in the minivan, load me and my hover-craft, and off we would go. I remember a couple games (first game, Quinn caused a penalty kick… another, an opposing player fractured his clavicle) but nothing really concrete.

I remember going to doctor appointments. Seems my body was under a bit of stress and my bones refused to heal. Since my bones weren’t healing, the external wounds (incision sites) felt inclined to receive attention of their own. So, off I would go to the Wound Care Center. OH! I remember meeting a woman there that had a sore on her leg they had been treating since 1997. No kidding. I told her that her wound qualified to be in junior high… same age as my youngest son! I could probably do an entire post on the Wound Care Center, but it would be too graphic and GROSS!

I made trips to the grocery store, etc. Well, this is an assumption because really I don’t remember doing that specifically.

From August until early November I can recall very little except how to get as comfortable as possible in my bed, take my medications for pain and to help me sleep (oh, heavenly little pills of slumber!) and then wake up the next day to exist.

But, do you want to know what I do remember?

Two people showed up day after day after day after day. I was their little girl again. The broken little girl that needed her mommy and her daddy. And they were here for me every single day. Without fail and without question.

I needed help with everything: My kids, my laundry, picking up around the house, shuttle service for the boys and my doctor appointments. Absolutely everything. My broken body and my broken heart.

Dad gave me accessibility to the world. He built a ramp, took off the screen door, and made sure I got in and out of the house safely every time I needed to venture out. Countless times he loaded and unloaded the wheelchair, the scooter, crutches, ME! He filled my leg cooling contraption with ice water every single evening so that I could keep the swelling down and stay as comfortable as possible. He fixed what needed fixing and was the driving force (literally) behind getting everyone where they needed to be when they needed to be there.

He kissed his little girl good-night every evening before going back home and always left saying, “Ya need anything else?” or “If you need anything, call.” His quiet strength was a gift at a time when I needed it without wanting to ask for it.

Mom was, well, my mom again. I have always been very proud to be so independent, and I have always been able to fend for myself, thankyouverymuch… But when I couldn’t any longer, it was mom. She tidied the kitchen and loved on my boys. She helped me get comfortable in bed and provided conversation while waiting in doctor’s offices. She was here when I needed her. I was her little girl again, and I could cry and snot on her shoulder and she didn’t mind. Most of the time, she cried with me. Everytime, she would run her hand over my hair to comfort me while I cried it out.

And each night when she left, it was with a kiss and a hug and, “Everything is going to be ok, honey. Just get some rest. We’ll be back in the morning.”

And they were back in the morning. That I remember.