Tonight, I’m less worried about whether my husband and I will be up to the task of raising a child who has suffered the trauma of losing her parents. No, my main concern is whether I’ll have the confidence to raise my hand and participate in class. Committing myself to this path of fostering shakes at my core and leaves me frustrated with myself for my discomfort among these people, all of whom seem genuinely kind and giving. I wonder what it will take to actually get me to share something with my classmates?
We still have lots to work out about his being transgender and what I will, or will not, allow. But we chat now, too. Noah talks about his upcoming band trip. He talks about his teachers and his assignments. He muses about where he wants to go to high school next year. He’s happy. It feels like a miracle, along with the tips of the tree branches turning pink, as they prepare to unfurl their new leaves.
I’m uncomfortable in this chair, in this place, under these too-bright lights—all I can think is that perhaps we shouldn’t have come.
You breathe it in, but you want to hold your breath. There’s always an edge to joy. It doesn’t last. He trips over the garden hose. The seatbelt digs into his incision. His heart rate is still too high. The joy spins away, torn from your fingers. Sometimes you don’t even notice it until it’s gone. Other times, you feel the height of it – the pure belly-jiggling elation. You want to live in that moment of joy – bury your face in it. You want every last syrupy-sliding bite. You want to hold onto it so much that you risk losing it altogether.
I sat down on the side of his bed. He was pale, no – white. The color completely drained from his face. Eyes shut; tube taped over his mouth. I ran my hand over his forehead, pushing back his hair. His forehead was cool. I wished it was warm. He was asleep, but not really asleep. I wished for him to be awake. He was under, somewhere I couldn’t go. I wanted him back. He’d already been gone too long.
The day before Rowan’s open-heart surgery, when they drew his blood, I held him on my lap. I talked him through the pain. I focused on the process, on what was happening. We acknowledged the shock – the prick and the sting – and then talked about the possibility of it all. The blood dripping into the tube.
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