Heidi ~ May 15

 

The intake nurse is crisp and sharp.  She makes me wait outside the room while she takes Kelly’s vital signs.  Then, I am allowed in the cold, sparse office where Kelly changes into a crinkly paper robe.  Kelly has gained weight during her ordeal of inactivity, but my precious daughter’s body is beautiful, firm and curved like a Bottcelli painting. She looks so vulnerable. In her world-war-2-like mask.  A pile of papers on her lap detailing history, symptoms, blood tests.  The queen of preparation she has attacked the only thing she can control – information.

 

I am back cuddling that cubby pink vibrant body after birth, her floppy head resting on my chest, me barely out of childhood myself, exchanging life force, one life force.  My heart fills the room with the love I have for her.  If only it could save her. 

 

The doctor will be in shortly.  Un Huh. 

 

We wait, and wait and wait.  No surprises there. We chat.  I tell her about my night episode where I almost went to the hospital, called my best friend who had to talk me down from panic.  I haven’t told Kelly about that before because… well, I don’t want her to worry.  I don’t want her to feel bad that she couldn’t be the one to help, to drive me to the hospital if needed.  The way it is supposed to be between a middle-aged daughter and aging parent.  But then, life is never as it is supposed to be. 

 

And we wait.