Okay. No one died.
But the death threats were real, at least to the one on the receiving end.
You can't spend four days in a hospital when you're four years old with needles and tubes and beeping machines all about your head unable to catch a breath on your own and hold it inside your lungs long enough to get the oxygen your body needs out of it without the dread that the next time will be much worse.
On the outside, my "middle" child is tough as nails. She is fiesty in protecting her friends and quick witted as anything -- I promise you her tongue has been sharpened brighter than a sword and she knows how to wield it. It is only out of necessity that she brandishes the thing at all. What would you do if your skin were as wilted as an 80 year olds when you are only five? "Grandma Becca" was one of my nicknames in high school for all the relationship wisdom I carried, but "Grandma Hands!" is worse than screaming "Four-Eyes!" to a kindergardener. There are no contact lens solutions for her skin.
Of course, it isn't just dryness. There is the calico blotch of color from her neck to her toes -- her body attacking itself and feeding on the melanin that gives pigment to the skin (it's called Vitiligo, as a reference, think of Michael Jackson's self esteem)...she even has strands of white hair at the base of her neck, a stark contrast to her dark brown. There is a foam, Verdeso, available to smooth eczema and has the happy side effect of encouraging the return of melanin. It's $180 for a single bottle with less than 2 ounces in it (a month's supply)...unattainable.
Then there is the asthma. Her lungs constricting against the air, her limbs on fire, her dizzy head. She only wants to run as fast as the wind. She loves to run. But, her lungs won't always let her no matter how many medications she takes against allergies and steroids to prevent their closure.
Last night, my sweet Daelynn lamented that God does not care about her because He made her this way. I told her that I believe it is possible that she is so strong and valiant that our Heavenly Father allowed these irritations and abnormalities so others could learn to treat people with compassion. And, even though this may be true on some eternal level, it feels hollow when your twelve year old tells you she just wants it to be over with. Most twelve year olds have no idea that life IS pain. Not yet.
So when, on the bus, a little boy threatened her with the remnants of his peanut butter sandwich as they argued over something that belonged to one of her friends and she answered, "I could die!" He called her a diva believing her to be melodramatic and the whole bus took up the chant "Diva! Diva! Diva!" and reached inside their back packs for anything with peanut butter, it was one thing too much. The one thing that she fears the most. Death by peanut butter and some idiot child who has no idea of the power inside his lunch box.
But the death threats were real, at least to the one on the receiving end.
You can't spend four days in a hospital when you're four years old with needles and tubes and beeping machines all about your head unable to catch a breath on your own and hold it inside your lungs long enough to get the oxygen your body needs out of it without the dread that the next time will be much worse.
On the outside, my "middle" child is tough as nails. She is fiesty in protecting her friends and quick witted as anything -- I promise you her tongue has been sharpened brighter than a sword and she knows how to wield it. It is only out of necessity that she brandishes the thing at all. What would you do if your skin were as wilted as an 80 year olds when you are only five? "Grandma Becca" was one of my nicknames in high school for all the relationship wisdom I carried, but "Grandma Hands!" is worse than screaming "Four-Eyes!" to a kindergardener. There are no contact lens solutions for her skin.
Of course, it isn't just dryness. There is the calico blotch of color from her neck to her toes -- her body attacking itself and feeding on the melanin that gives pigment to the skin (it's called Vitiligo, as a reference, think of Michael Jackson's self esteem)...she even has strands of white hair at the base of her neck, a stark contrast to her dark brown. There is a foam, Verdeso, available to smooth eczema and has the happy side effect of encouraging the return of melanin. It's $180 for a single bottle with less than 2 ounces in it (a month's supply)...unattainable.
Then there is the asthma. Her lungs constricting against the air, her limbs on fire, her dizzy head. She only wants to run as fast as the wind. She loves to run. But, her lungs won't always let her no matter how many medications she takes against allergies and steroids to prevent their closure.
Last night, my sweet Daelynn lamented that God does not care about her because He made her this way. I told her that I believe it is possible that she is so strong and valiant that our Heavenly Father allowed these irritations and abnormalities so others could learn to treat people with compassion. And, even though this may be true on some eternal level, it feels hollow when your twelve year old tells you she just wants it to be over with. Most twelve year olds have no idea that life IS pain. Not yet.
So when, on the bus, a little boy threatened her with the remnants of his peanut butter sandwich as they argued over something that belonged to one of her friends and she answered, "I could die!" He called her a diva believing her to be melodramatic and the whole bus took up the chant "Diva! Diva! Diva!" and reached inside their back packs for anything with peanut butter, it was one thing too much. The one thing that she fears the most. Death by peanut butter and some idiot child who has no idea of the power inside his lunch box.
I believe what you said about Heavenly Father allowing these trials so that others could learn compassion. I know it must be hard for sweet Daelynn to deal with these things. I cried just reading this post. But she's got the best mom to help her through it. Give her a hug for me.
ReplyDeletePoor girl. Give her some hugs for me.
ReplyDeleteas a p.s. I should add that the "idiot" child and his mom have been very sweet about the whole thing -- apologies all around and, maybe, a new friendship for D. So, I guess I'm the one who was being melodramatic. ;)
ReplyDelete