Can
there be anything worse for a parent than to see a child in pain,
physical pain, excruciating pain? The wrinkles of discomfort spread
across the child's face reflective of the internal battle within the
child's body. The parent stirs in the seat uncomfortably, ill-at-ease
with the child beyond the parent's ability to comfort, to make better,
to heal the ow-ie.
All children get hurt from time to time, get sick, find themselves in trouble. Often parents can make things right with a first aid kit, caress with a damp cloth a fevered brow, calm the raging waves of difficulty. Not all times is the parent able to accomplish this. There are times when the parent is helpless, times when the best that can be done is to sit in a waiting room until the surgeon comes out to give his report.
These are times of anguish, when the loving care must be put on hold, when parenting skills are useless, when the child's well-being, safety, healing is in hands of another.
Fortunately, such times are few and when they come the outcome is usually good. It is in the aftermath of the surgery, the time when the pain is severe, the body has not yet turned the corner to head toward healing that the parent can be what the parent was intended to be, a parent.
The child smiles at the parent's presence, grateful for a friendly face to fix upon through the haze of pain. The child welcomes the parent with words of gratitude for the parent's presence.
The medication begins to work its magic. The child's speech becomes slurred, the head begins to move slowly toward the chest and then snap back suddenly as the child fights to remain coherent. The battle is futile. The drug wins. The child sleeps. The parent picks up the iPad and resumes reading the new Gresham novel.
Despite the fascinating plot, the parent begins to fill his head nod. Soon, the parent gives up the fight, the tension of the surgery and its tiring aftermath wins. The parent slides down in the chair in a struggle for comfort and dozes, then sleeps.
The moan awakens. The parent rises, walks toward the child noticing tension on the child's face. The pain is returning. The parent looks at his watch. Two more hours before any more of the addictive narcotic. In the kitchen the parent fills the plastic bag with crushed ice cubes. Returning, the parent places the ice pack upon the leg, wrapped from the surgery on the ruptured Achilles tendon. The child moans again. The parent resumes his seat and continues reading the novel.
An hour passes. The child moans. The parent rises. “You okay?” he asks.
“I think the pain killer is wearing off. It's starting to hurt.”
The parent checks his watch, nods, heads to the kitchen for water. He provides the child with a pill and filled glass. The child expresses his thanks. The parent, hearing something, turns, walks to the window and looks out. He then begins picking up this and that, returning dishes to the kitchen, stacking papers and books on the table next to the child.
The child looks up. “You're leaving?”
“I am.”
“But, I mean who's going to take care of things?”
“Look, I love you,” I said, “but you're thirty-eight years old and your wife just drove into the driveway.”
All children get hurt from time to time, get sick, find themselves in trouble. Often parents can make things right with a first aid kit, caress with a damp cloth a fevered brow, calm the raging waves of difficulty. Not all times is the parent able to accomplish this. There are times when the parent is helpless, times when the best that can be done is to sit in a waiting room until the surgeon comes out to give his report.
These are times of anguish, when the loving care must be put on hold, when parenting skills are useless, when the child's well-being, safety, healing is in hands of another.
Fortunately, such times are few and when they come the outcome is usually good. It is in the aftermath of the surgery, the time when the pain is severe, the body has not yet turned the corner to head toward healing that the parent can be what the parent was intended to be, a parent.
The child smiles at the parent's presence, grateful for a friendly face to fix upon through the haze of pain. The child welcomes the parent with words of gratitude for the parent's presence.
The medication begins to work its magic. The child's speech becomes slurred, the head begins to move slowly toward the chest and then snap back suddenly as the child fights to remain coherent. The battle is futile. The drug wins. The child sleeps. The parent picks up the iPad and resumes reading the new Gresham novel.
Despite the fascinating plot, the parent begins to fill his head nod. Soon, the parent gives up the fight, the tension of the surgery and its tiring aftermath wins. The parent slides down in the chair in a struggle for comfort and dozes, then sleeps.
The moan awakens. The parent rises, walks toward the child noticing tension on the child's face. The pain is returning. The parent looks at his watch. Two more hours before any more of the addictive narcotic. In the kitchen the parent fills the plastic bag with crushed ice cubes. Returning, the parent places the ice pack upon the leg, wrapped from the surgery on the ruptured Achilles tendon. The child moans again. The parent resumes his seat and continues reading the novel.
An hour passes. The child moans. The parent rises. “You okay?” he asks.
“I think the pain killer is wearing off. It's starting to hurt.”
The parent checks his watch, nods, heads to the kitchen for water. He provides the child with a pill and filled glass. The child expresses his thanks. The parent, hearing something, turns, walks to the window and looks out. He then begins picking up this and that, returning dishes to the kitchen, stacking papers and books on the table next to the child.
The child looks up. “You're leaving?”
“I am.”
“But, I mean who's going to take care of things?”
“Look, I love you,” I said, “but you're thirty-eight years old and your wife just drove into the driveway.”
hah!
Posted by: mmp | September 07, 2012 at 07:02 AM