A Mother's Love

As a parent, I feel safe in saying that with all of us who have children, there is one commonality between all of us, and to lose a child would be like our worst nightmare coming true. The thought of losing one's child makes all the other things going on in our lives seem like they are not only trivial, but just plain stupid. So, how does one go on when their child is ill? How does one continue to put one foot in front of the other with the knowledge that their child may not get that opportunity? I, truthfully, cannot say that I could. I have found that my child is my eternal weakness. He is the one thing in my life that can make me the happiest and hurt me the easiest. He is my weakness.

I have realized this since the day that he was born; however it really hit home lately. You see last month, his tiny seven-year-old body became covered in hives. Not, hives like you would think of that normally accompany an allergic reaction. Huge hives. Hives that itched incessantly, and kept him up nights crying and begging me to make it stop itching. Hives that not only showed up all over his tiny body, but that managed to burn their image into my mind, so that on the rare occasion I got to lay down and attempt to sleep, all I could see were those damn hives covering his tiny body, interspersed with an image of his beautiful face streaked with tears.

It was during this time that I really began to contemplate, just how it is that people can go on when they lose a child. I decided I probably would not be that strong. I probably would not be able to continue to function.

For me to say that, it is truly strange. For me the thought of just being unable to continue is just out of place. I watched as my father lay in a coma for three days. I told them to stop all but comfort medication when they told me if he did wake up he would never know anything again. I sat on the edge of his bed and held his hand until he drew that last breath into his lungs. I picked out the clothes he would be buried in, the type of funeral he would have, and the casket that would be his final resting place, and I did all of this with no one by my side. I did it alone, all because I knew at the end of the day that I could return to my house, and fold myself into the arms of a seven-year-old child. Who not only cared that I was hurting, but would rub my hair and cry with me. He gave me the strength to somehow keep putting one foot in front of the other, and I think if that source of strength were gone, I too would just fade to nothingness.

I don't just know all of this; I feel it to my soul. When he does something to make me angry, when I have to take responsibility and punish him for something that he has done, I finally understand all of the times my own parents told me that it hurt them worse than it did me. It does. When he loses an allowance for something, and the tears wind their way down his little cheeks, my soul begins to break. It is looking at him that I wonder, how is it that some parents just do not seem to care? How is it that they can look at the very essence of their being and not be swept away by the tide of emotions? I just look at him and wonder, and know that he is my being. I know, that if ever that day comes when something happens to him, that will be the day too that my spirit ceases to go on.