Broken Strength

The minutes drug by as I struggled not to give in and cry. Sitting alone on the table I felt so very small, cold and helpless. A grown adult I attempted to belittle myself about my pain.

"You see kids running around with broken arms all the time. Come on...grow up. Quit sniveling! No seriously...STOP. Oh geez...you are going to start again."

A nurse came in the room at that moment, saw my eyes and immediately asked if I had taken the pain medication that had been given me. I didn't want to be bothered, so I said "Yes." The truth was I hadn't taken it since I had to drive myself. She began laying out all the things the doctor would need to set my arm in its final cast. Chirping about her day, attempting a cordial bedside manner and then she lied.


"You know your bone will grow back stronger. You'll be even better than before."

I knew better than that, but for a moment I laughed and said, "tell the doctor to come in and break all of me then."

During the weeks of healing, I felt the weakest I had ever felt. Handicapped. Dependent. I would go to the store and someone would always offer to help me. I would deny them and learn to do it by myself.

Then came the day that the cast came off. The doctor sat and looked at it; a frown taking the place of what I expected to be a smile and a cheery wave as I skipped cast free from that office. More xrays and more time waiting on that table. He finally came in and held my arm at the healed break.

"We are going to have to rebreak this. It didn't heal the way it should have. Did you use it? For appearances you will always have a lump there."

I snatched my arm back as though he had ripped a baby from my arms. Indignant, but mostly scared.


"I will not have my arm broken by someone again."

There was no smile or cheery wave as I left the room without being excused and never looked back.

The truth was I had used my arm. I worked through the pain because I couldn't handle being weak. I couldn't force myself to wait for the healing.

In reflecting I find this to be a theme for my life. I can't handle being weak when I am broken. I don't wait for the healing as I try to rush through the pain. The moments in my life that pushed me to my knees, I would defiantly stand back up on my feet and deny proper healing time. I think about that nurse and her lie.


"You know your bone will grow back stronger. You'll be even better than before."

Although it was a lie about my arm, it wasn't off the mark about my spirit. At the moment of the break; when weakness fills me; I need to allow myself time to heal properly. The pain of healing is sometimes unbearable but when allowed, can actually make you stronger.


There may be people who see the real you when you are weak, no matter the brave face you put on. They offer to help because you can't always do everything alone. I'm learning to let people help and let them see me weak. It can be painful to admit I can't do it, but then again they already knew that or they wouldn't have offered to help. Sometimes they can't actually help, but like the cast; they can surround you and protect you as you heal.

Being broken hurts. Healing is agonizing. Yet, in the end...you will be stronger.

Piercing Life's Grain

 

It's too early for a diagnosis officially for our Bitsy, but we know. 

We've been here before with Buzz, but this time we aren't afraid or ashamed. 

We've learned that these two precious girls do not flow with the grain of what is "normal;" they dig in and make a mark. Piercing deep and experiencing life, leaving a few splinters that wound the heart of their parents. 

Wounds of wishing others saw their unique view of life. 

Wounds of desiring life to be a little kinder to them.

Sitting last night beside Bitsy's bed while she flapped her hands, rocking back and forth into the wall, I wept. Not out of pity for her, nor the need to change her. I wept because I understood that I will never understand. I will make accommodations for her when the lights are too bright, when noises are too loud, when emotions are jumbled, when a certain texture frightens her and when her words can't be understood. 

Yet, I can't understand with the mind that I was given. I can't process life the way that they do.

All that I can do is mother and thankfully, that's all they need from me.

As they pierce deep into the grain of life, they teach me.

They better me.

They have pierced my heart in a way that I would never want repaired. A nail of difference.

Spring Flowers