The house is in an uproar. A child has hurt her foot – perhaps a sprain, perhaps a fracture. I think it’s likely it’s a sprain. Seeing how much this kid is like me, I am sure it’s a sprain, because I just am not capable of bearing pain silently for long. A fracture and she would ahev been screaming long before this.
Her father, a cardiologist, is perhaps loosing his cool the fastest. I don’t think he can listen to his daughter crying, and him, helpless… his yelling at the mother, and the grandmother and everyone else is upsetting the daughter more than the pain itself, I think.
I understand that situation. It is the same thing that makes sure my father leaves the room in a fury of guilt when I burst into tears. Truth be told, I hold things in until one small item triggers the bursting of the dam. And usually, it’s a normal thing which at any other time I would have ignored that makes me – turn the taps on. And usually, it is my father who tips me over the edge.
I wonder, will I be that protective?
Are you that protective, if you have kids? And if not, do you think you will be?
I hear other sitting around, commenting, ‘why did the child not cry when she first hurt herself?’, as if it were her fault. And when she does cry, she is told to shut up. I don’t understand, and I don’t hope to. This entire huge emotional blow up frustrates me, and in a strange way, drains me. I have taken refuge in front of my screen, hoping to block out those words that he directs towards all around him.
And in the middle, he worries that he hasn’t gotten me what I need. I wish I could set things right, but my meddling will only make things worse. They’ll fix themselves on their own, with no aid from me. But it is so difficult to wait. Of all of life’s lessons, one of the most important is – I must learn to wait. And it is one thing that I despair of ever learning.
I’m feeling so bad for the father, who is probably feeling worthless – powerless… In spite of, and perhaps because, he is a “doctor” himself. That is likely the reason why he loads the blame on others. The mother, who is getting to hear a lot of stuff that she neither deserves to listen to, nor needs to hear on top of her own guilt. And the child, who has a sprain and is weeping, “Mommy, I don’t want anyone to touch that, Mommy.” Over and over and over again, so much so that I think I shall dream of it tonight.
It’s no big torture, but it’s bad enough, for me. My hands are trembling. It’s right at home, where it always hits the hardest. Sometimes I wonder how I live among humans at all.