I never knew they were so vulnerable, energetic little tykes. All I’d ever heard is how mischievous and resilient they are. The tiny rubber bands stretch the limits of my patience as I hold the bridles with a stoic forbearance. Welcome to Motherhood, whispers continue from deep inside my head.
I realise that had I paid more attention in Psychology class, I would have been better prepared for that altering mind-blowing moment when all the control evaporates like the morning’s mist. The words lamented under my breath that it wasn’t my fault, faded away in the fog of trillions of synapses trying to comprehend what had happened.
I should have anticipated her minuscule forehead splitting in two. A grike forming upon a clumsy impact with the marble edge as she launches full speed ahead. The collision - unavoidable. Time standing still, a slow-motion sliver, erroneous and out of place.
And all I had to do was child-proof the edges.
Had I paid more attention like a parent should, I would have been ready for the silence setting atop the room, a quiet ringing in the ears before sh** hits the fan. Her scream ripping through the air. The ruby colour of blood gushing out from a deep cleft free of the skin’s confinement. My heart, imploding. My vision veiled with vapour, fighting the urge to faint.
Panic creeping in. And all I had to do was child-proof the edges.
My home attire soiled crimson, no patch left unscathed. On autopilot pressing the laceration, I enwrap my body to swallow her whole (as if that would stop the lifeblood). Fragile, like porcelain dolls I remember mishandling in childhood. But she’s no doll. Her chubby cheeks roofed with a mixture of tears, snot and blood. The gauze in my hand soaked. Bulging doe-eyes searching for me, plump fingers touching my nose while I try not to let go of the fissure on her forehead.
Relentless voice on a loop: ‘And all you had to do was child-proof the edges.’
***
In a hospital bed, attached to a series of smothering tubes, unconscious on the way to the operating room, I hold her lifeless hand. My thoughts invaded by the memory of the invasive scandent shrubs overtaking Grandma’s picture-perfect garden. It’s weird how the mind plays tricks on you. In a trance, I listen to White Coats chatting about last night’s game, oblivious to the guilt eating me away. The cracks opening in my soul, never to be fully sewn again.
***
Years later I still wake up with a gulping dread, restless bubbling in the gut. And I rush to her bedroom just to find her blissful in the Land of Nod. I know she doesn’t remember any of it as she continues on her roguish path of being a child. I also know that the twin sisters, Relief and Anguish, ingrained inside my heart are forever entwined, an aide-mémoire of how much I am not in control.
And I remind myself to breathe.
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