Monday, February 17, 2014

A Chance

I sat in the floor and listened to her. And I could understand almost everything she said. We had a simple conversation, about stacking blocks and her little brother and a fellow playmate' s snazzy boots. I watched him pretend to drive a truck, and then pretend to fix the roof of the truck, or had it turned back into the slide house again?

When I got home, after I fed everyone lunch, I pulled her into my lap and squeezed her.  And I held and kissed her head, for once not feeling the lumps but thinking only of the heart inside that little body.  I hope and pray for now she has no idea.  It may be hard to believe given all I write, but I honestly forget how different she is.  I'm not interacting directly with her age often, so I don't realize what a gap is growing.

Is she oblivious? I hope so.  How long will she stay that way?  Will she be able to make friends?  I talk about her new friends, try to learn their names so I can talk to her about them in hopes that calling them friends will create reality.  She won't be two forever, and it doesn't take long for little girls to form cliques.  They throw daggers far too early.  How long will it be before they're thrown, and before she realizes she's excluded?

This is why I'm fighting for surgery. I want her to have a chance. A chance to develop normally.  A chance to be able to communicate and build friendships with her peers.  A chance to learn without having to struggle for every gain. I know there are no guarantees. I know there's a risk of complications. But if something doesn't change... how behind will she fall? How isolated will she be?  And how much hurt will her heart experience?

I'm trying to teach her to hug.  To teach her to give and receive affection.  Because just giving her affection isn't working.  But I can't teach everything.  I need her to have a chance of absorbing it, the way her sister does.  I'm not asking the doctors for a miracle. I'm just asking for them to give her a chance.

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