I miss my children with a fierce pain today. I stood in the kitchen, hunched over the crutches, the reality of my situation a physical pain – and not just the body side of it, but the parenting side. It’s Saturday. I want to cook for my children, I want to play, I want to go for a walk.

Instead I’ve just got back from treatment. The pain is such that I am wearing a support belt to keep my ligaments from stretching, my bones from rotating and shearing. I am walking uncertainly, crutches barely reining in my wobbles.

I sob in the kitchen. It is soundless, my face frozen. A tear falls into the refried beans. I lean against the refrigerator, TMD comes in and holds me, tries to keep me from my growing hurt and grief and pain.

I wipe my face before I go back into the lounge, put a smile on my face. My children look at me with expectant faces, joy lighting their eyes. I hobble past them, one shaky, jarring, tortuous step at a time, and the tears start again. I turn my face away and move into the hall, my mouth opening again, freezing, water pouring down my cheeks.

After treatment they went into the library, the family… minus me. I walked about ten steps before the pain was so bad TMD gently suggested I returned to the car. I grabbed the keys with no comment. She walked into real life with them, to books, to people. I turned to head back to the car, and the pain was so sudden and deep and ripping a cry came out of my throat and I wasn’t even embarassed about it. I struggled back to the car, but the pain fogged my mind and I couldn’t remember where we’d parked and I stood in the middle of all those cars, forcing a perplexed, fake smile on my face when all I wanted to do was sink down and sob.

It all feels unfair today.

My children are alive and upright and happy. They eat broccoli and chatter and wave their toys around. TMD bakes and plays with them.

I am on the bed, alone, aching, wishing things were somehow different. Everyone and everything in my life is perfect, except for me.

I am broken.


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9 Responses to “Broken.”

  1. Mammapie Says:

    I’m so sorry dear. So sorry. I wish I could be a real frien and be there to help out.

  2. kat Says:

    You sound like you need a big hug. This post made me almost cry. I’m sorry. I really, really hope that your treatment starts making you feel better. I know it’s hell. (((hug)))

  3. saralema Says:

    It is unfair. Hoping so hard that you start to find some relief with treatment.

  4. apieceofwood Says:

    Oh E, I am so sorry you are having such a shite time… sending you so many get better vibes… x

  5. Chibi Jeebs Says:

    *big, fat, squishy hugs* Thinking about you, love. ❤

  6. Tatiana Says:

    This is so shitty for you. I’m sorry.

  7. Jenni Williams Says:

    Oh babe. I am so freaking sorry. Being temporarily disabled/injured blows balls. I know it sucks and is very painful, but hopefully this treatment works and soon you will running around playing this them. I am struggling with my messed up knee still, its been almost a year. My kids are not babies, they are half men these days and I feel like a jerk for not being able to run and play with them. This will pass. Just keep telling yourself that. Also the babies are happy and well adjusted, they know you love them. Hugs.

  8. Christy Says:

    I know this isn’t really going to help but you are such a great writer.

    Can you (TMD) bring your bed out to the lounge so you could be comfy and involved?

  9. Christine LaRocque Says:

    Finally reading, and it feels too little too late, but I feel for you honey. I wish I could help you pick up the pieces and feel right in the world again. There’s nothing I can say to make it better, except that you have friends who care and are pulling for you and hoping you can make it through.

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