The doctors classify it as a brain injury.
n. pl. in·ju·ries
1. Damage or harm done to or suffered by a person or thing: escaped from the accident without injury; a scandal that did considerable injury to the campaign.
2. A particular form of hurt, damage, or loss: a leg injury.
Somedays I watch from my post as mother and see the other injuries. The emotional injury and the life fracture that now belong to her. The doctors would deny the contagious nature of these injuries, but I have witnessed and experienced the spreading of the trauma. I know it exists. Like yeast. A little yeast spreads throughout the entire loaf. Yes, this is a particular form of hurt, damage, and loss like no other. This giant, looming cloud remaining with us; much like the cloud with the Hebrews during their 40 years in the desert. I often cry out for more. My cries very much like their cries- their moaning. I moan. I pray that my sadness and confusion doesn’t effect entry into the Promised Land. I’ve heard it preached that unbelief stopped them. I have to believe that God understands my hurt over this shattered life of my child. I have to believe that He understands why somedays I scream and cry and feel fear exploding in my guts. Does this mean I don’t trust Him? This is often a place of few answers.
Ely sits beside me tearing the fringe off the side of a sheet of spiral notebook paper. She tosses the trash away and comments on the good smelling cinnamon candles. Hal, our dog, runs to greet her and begins to encourage her in a game of chase. We go outside for 10 minutes and help the family move some firewood. She requires a lot of direction, but she wants to help and work like the rest of us. When we come back inside, she returns to her room to color in her SpongeBob book. Today is a day that is full of awareness of the situation. I don’t know how to process her condition. Where can I store this reality? What do I name it? What will happen in the future?
This happened almost 5 years ago. Now she can speak to us. Now she uses the restroom alone. I wash her hair and shave her legs. My beautiful 19 year old daughter needs my help. Because of her disability, I am paid to be her nurse for 5 hours a day. Cooking, cleaning, bathing, and driving her to her appointments. All of the duties I would do anyway. I am her mother. It helps our family now. I was teaching but cannot continue with that career. Sometimes I feel guilty for taking money to care for my child. Guilt. I know about guilt. As I drag you through the ramblings of my emotional injury, I hope my journey can in some way offer insight to you. I honestly don’t know if it can. I pray it isn’t one dark gloomy moment after dark gloomy moment. Maybe the Lord is trying to pull out all of the gunk in my heart. I don’t know. I don’t know. These days do show forth their ugliness. It is hard to be busier than hurt.
I don’t know how to take each day for exactly what it is. I feel comparison to before bubble inside. I wish for her to have restoration without the depression. I wonder if I could be happy with her life as it is if I knew without a doubt that she was satisfied and happy. I think I could. Yet, I know she is not satisfied. I have heard her cry and want to have her mind back. Still, we wait.
Somedays are happy and full of laughter. We devour those days. Other times... it is heavy to walk inside of this ‘injury’.
Lord, help us. I do not understand. Again.