I Think I Scared My Daughter

I think I scared my daughter.

So I’m here to straighten that out.

Twice in the past two weeks I have been struck asunder by a virus from hell.  During the second go-round I was lying at home, barely able to move, or lift a bottle of water to my ever getting drier lips.  My youngest daughter had to pick up something from my house and came upon me suffering it out at home.  Because, I can.  I knew that no damn virus was going to out power me.

My daughter insisted we seek medical treatment.  She was calm.  Not pushy so much as…..quiet.  I could see in her face she was concerned.  I didn’t have much energy.  I wanted to feel better, no argument there at all.  But I was anticipating getting ready, walking to the car, and sitting in the car to go get medical attention.  I weighed that against how horrible I felt.  I would have been content to lie on the couch another 24 hours.  The only thing that made me decide to go, was her face.   I could be wrong, but she looked scared.

I’m much improved from that moment.

But I can’t shake her face.  Her quiet, concerned, face.

For all of her life I have prided myself on my ability to power through whatever I needed to get through.  Often times dragging my kids-kicking and screaming-with me.  I have yelled when I wanted to cry.  I have cried alone when I wanted help but there was no one to ask.  I sought help when I was embarrassed by the need.  And often did without when I was in need.

It’s what parents do.

I never want my children, adult or not, to see me suffer or see me in pain.  For all of the reasons I should or should not feel this-I do.

And I’m fine with that.

When I’m 99 and staring back at them with a raised eye brow I want them to know I mean business.

When I reach out a hand to shake some sense (because I think I have that kind of power) in to this maddening world I want them to see a capable hand.  No matter if the rest of the world only sees an aged and weakened hand.  It’s what they see that matters.

When I sing Amazing Grace to their great grandchildren I want them to smile at the memory of them being sung that very same hymn, as I put them to bed with song and prayer.

I don’t want to see fear in their eyes at the thought of me suffering, or God forbid, leaving.  Because the undeniable truth is-I am going to get weaker.  I am going to leave.   And that’s okay.

Because it’s only here that I will be leaving.   I will not leave them.  Love doesn’t leave.

It’s just transformed.

I am not immortal.  No matter what my inordinate opinion of my power is.

But I am powerfully human.

And always


Their badass mother.

Damn virus.



In every sense of these things:  I carried each child under my heart, in my arms and upon my back.  I have never, and will never, put them down.