Abraham,
I owe you so many stories; these are rich days.
Most of your short life you have worn thick plaster casts on your legs. They are bulky things, that stretch from your toes to the top of your thighs. They dig into your legs and are damp for two days after being changed. And with each set of casts, they torque your ankles further towards normal. The only part you enjoy is the vibrating blade that cuts them off. You smile amidst the dust and noise.
Last week we had a pre-op appointment and they cut the casts off and left them off. Until that time I had thought that you were a fussy kid maybe, or colicky. Now I think you're indignant. You were so happy without the casts. You bounced your legs around like a baby should and smiled so much that you chased away the rain.
It was with a heavy hearts that we drove you to the hospital this past Tuesday for surgery and a new set of casts. I didn't worry much for the anesthesia or the small stab wounds they would make into your heels to lengthen your Achilles tendon. I do believe their technology can help you. I want you to run freely and dance whenever the mood strikes you. I am sure that this is worth it. That did not change my aching heart, broken at the thought of you weighed down with more casts.
The hospital was soaked in florescent lighting and full of kind people who spoke in code. There is so much raw emotion in a children's hospital, so much potential energy, waiting kinetic expression as crushing grief or levitating relief. Every table in the waiting room has a box of tissues on it and the coffee machine generously gives you back your change. They hand out USAToday for free, like in a mediocre hotel.
You cried some, but were easily consoled by bouncing and being held close. We were happy to hold you close.
The walk down the hallway to the surgery was hard. It brought home the idea that we would hand you over to strangers who would drug you and cut into you. That walk tests your faith in their technology. Maybe we can run away and live on the moon where steeply turned ankles are less of a concern, where we can run and dance and bounce without gravity's constant nagging.
We did not run. Someday you will.
Since that time you have been rightfully indiginant. These casts are the biggest yet; none of your pants fit. The anesthesia rocked your world and the pain syrup was so effective at knocking you out, I felt guilty for giving it to you. You have a new waking cry that is pained and panicked, sudden and piercing.
And yet, everyday gets better. Today you smiled like crazy at my high pitched voice and took two bottles from me without complaint. That's new and newsworthy. You get stronger and stronger and swing your casts around on the changing table and vigorously smash the wall. You are so fresh and alive; I wonder if I am the one holding all the regret and grief for this, all the indignation. I got a knack for that.
Run.
Pa-