The minutes and days that followed Poppy’s birth were a trying time. My heart was broken. I did not plan on ever going to a doctor, needing a pediatrician, or exposing my child to unnecessary medical interventions.
But she NEEDED them… doctors, nurses, specialists, surgeons, they all play an intricate and absolutely necessary part in maintaining her health and quality of life.
That’s hard to swallow.
The fact that I, alone, cannot fix her right up and soothe her aches and pains, is belittling. Who is better than a child’s mother?
I am learning that it is not that doctors are better, but that they are able to help BECAUSE they are not her mother.
When Kieran was small, he choked on a cracker. I froze. I stared at him as he turned blue. I couldn’t even touch him because I was so afraid. A friend scooped him up and swiped his throat and saved his life.
I am his mother and I did nothing… because it is impossible to both fathom your child’s demise and also prevent it. A mother’s fear is debilitating. How many times have I pulled food and objects from the throats of other babes? Ten times at least.
I am learning to be more gracious in my judgments. There are so many millions of delicate things that have to go exactly right for a human being to be born healthy and physically “intact.” It only takes one thing to get tweaked just so, to be born with differences.
It’s a wonder so many of us have ten fingers, and ten toes, perfectly round heads, and seamless ventricles.