helplessness

Ever had a day when the bottom dropped out from under your feet? When your stomach rolls over and no matter how embarrassing it might be, you think you might lose your lunch all over the stranger next to you?

I had one of those mornings and now I am just exhausted from the effort it took to hold myself together the rest of the day. But what can you do when there's laundry to be done and meals to be made and children to chase after? Now they are nestled all snug in their beds and I am left with visions of helplessness dancing in my head.

My baby, sweet, sweet baby has been diagnosed with JRA. I know this is not a fatal disease, but no matter how often I remind myself of this, I am overcome with fear and dread and sadness. My mind runs like a banshee, with lists of things he won't be able to do. I wonder if and when he will pull out of this. I try to wrap my mind around the pain he must suffer from daily and I want to shut down and crawl in to bed and pull the covers up over my head and hide.

I am afraid of the side effects and of what will happen if we opt out. There is nothing I can do to heal this little, innocent person. I stand wringing my sweaty hands and wrestling with God over why MY child had to have this debilitating illness. Why?? What will be accomplished through his pain and suffering? Is this a test? Am I going to walk upright, triumphantly down this path or skulk in to the nearest closet and lose myself?
I feel worn out and a little angry. I am more sad than angry, but I know it's just lurking around the corner, waiting to devour me for a time. I wish I could sleep a deep and beautiful sleep and when I wake this would have all been a nightmare, forgotten by the close of breakfast.
Sometimes I go in to his room, ever so quietly, and watch him and smell him. I pet his glorious hair and wonder why I was given this angel and how long he will be mine. I stroke his cheek and marvel at his lashes. I kiss his lips and his nose and his ears. I weep over his misshapen feet and swollen knees and try not to choke and wake him.

Am I doing the right thing for him? Am I sensitive and compassionate? Am I aware and patient? Am I long suffering? I can't say that I am. I am impatient and angry and sinking in the quicksand of grief- gasping and grasping and fighting to find a root of deliverance for Jack and for me.