My greatest fear has come.
What do you do?
How do you respond?
How do you surrender yourself to the truth?
How do you hide the anguish before you?
What do you say to your loved ones?
How do you make them understand?
My little girl was all about her whimsical self on a ferry
ride to Cebu for her doctor’s visit. I on the other hand was trembling softly
deep inside. This was it. The moment of truth. No holding back. It had to be
known. Sooner or later, in any given circumstance.
When Julia was operated last year, my greatest fear was enduring
the aftermath – the endless tantrums, the sleepless nights and her grouchy
behavior due to her cast. But I persisted each and everyday, simply because
Julia was so dear and so brave, she never gave us a hard time. Months later,
her doctor told us that there would be a chance of her hip getting dislocated again;
I was all resigned to the thought that it isn’t going to happen. Not to us. Not
to her. It’s too much, as I would say. Not really thinking openly.
We lived each day favorably. Not thinking of the unknown.
Everyday was a happy day for us. And still is up to now. Thanks to my cheerful
daughter who brings out the best amongst the not-so-good days.
Time will tell.
We will cross the bridge when we get there.
Those are the words that come to my mind whenever I think of
that greatest fear.
It happened so quickly. Like a balloon bursting out loud.
Let me start by telling you how it came to be.
It was just another day, a Friday.
We had the most unlikable struggle at the X-ray department.
It felt like the loudest cry of her life. She would grab my shoulders, and scream
out loud “Mama”. I felt so weak on the knees that I came down to kneel before
her just to carry my little one, giving her the encouragement that she won’t
fall. She was made to stand up straight without her tiny knees curling or bending.
That was too much for her. We haven’t conquered that milestone just yet. It’ll
happen soon as I claim it will be. She collapsed to sleep thru tiny sobs and gentle
cuddles as I held her close to me on our way home. I soothingly placed her on
the bed so she could sleep comfortably. I sat beside her as I carried my weapon
of choice and began to pray.
I prayed hard to God. For, in the next few hours we shall
come to know what Julia’s scan would be. I couldn’t help but cry. Cry a little
and let it all out. It works by the way.
As soon as we arrive the doctor’s clinic, the little girl
couldn’t stay put. She had to wander around all the corners and had to amuse
all strangers passing by. She would say “hi” to almost everyone. Her shyest
smile would melt the hearts of many.
We were waiting and still waiting that out of curiosity, I
slipped the Xray scan out of the brown envelope and started squinting my eyes. I
had to find out what magic lies within. It had to be known sooner or later.
Might as well find it for myself - now.
I know what a typical scan looks like and the one before me
wasn’t normal looking at all.
Right then and there, I felt my chest tighten. I wanted to cry
out loud. I had to look high up so as to stop my tears from falling. I’ve never
felt so alone in my life. I turn to my side and there was nobody I could share
my torment with. My tears were hastening down I could almost hear them. My
inner self reminded me, not here, not at the doctor’s office, not in front of
Julia. So I put myself together and masked my emotions right away like I always
do.
The lady in blue blurted out loud “Torres”, and finally it
was our turn to be inside. I carried my daughter with the heaviest weight on my
shoulder. My feet suddenly became too tired to walk. I had no energy left.
The doctor looked at me, Julia and the scan respectively.
His face wasn’t a pleased one I can tell. And then, there came the magic in his
words. I had to hear it.
Julia needs another operation. Her hip hasn’t developed just
yet and the scan evidently showed how it still is. It looked complicated.
The only thing to be done is to operate once again. AGAIN.
Not my favorite word at the moment.
How do you look your daughter in the eye and tell her
everything is okay? Is going to be okay.
I know that even at 1 year and 5 months, she is gradually
catching up with words and actions. Somehow, I’ve got this impression that a
teeny bitsy part of her understands.
How do you succumb everything?
What possible answers can you get from the never-ending
questions you have?
I do not know. I simply do not know.
As I am writing this, it’s exactly the eve of my 29th
birthday. I asked God to give me a miracle as my birthday present a few months
ago. I hoped for Julia’s complications to go away. Just like that. But God’s
ways doesn’t work like that.
On my birthday, Julia and I went to see another doctor to
seek another opinion about her displaced hip. The doctor we were supposed to
see hasn’t arrived just yet. We waited and waited. And all along the wait, I
saw a name that looked familiar in the list of physicians that I researched on
visiting. I asked the lady if we could see him too. The lady told us we could see
him right now without the long wait coz he is just there. The heavens must have
heard my plea. No more waiting. Happy birthday to me. We then entered his tiny
cubicle and there I told him about our story…
Just like Julia’s doctor in Cebu, he agreed on taking
another surgery just to fix Julia’s displaced hip. There is no other way, he
said. This doctor was so pleasant and so nice. Even if we are both strangers to
each other, he told me that I need not to worry coz Julia’s problem is
operable.
At this point in time, any encouragement from anybody, any
support, any kind of gesture, perhaps a simple pat on the shoulder means so
much. His words were beyond reassuring and I simply must not lose hope.
This is what I ponder, now; maybe, God has a purpose for all
of this. Maybe something good is going to a happen at the end. Maybe its is
better to leave all my questions unanswered.
Inhale. Exhale. Be still and know that I am God --- I am
prompted.
The room is so quiet. Julia’s bedtime melody is being played
on repeat until it fades.
And then I am reminded, in the darkest of times, I am always
reminded that the one before me, the one who has mastered the words “Mama” is
the tiniest miracle I’ve ever had. Because of that reminiscent thought, there
is a huge relief on my face.
Deep breath and I seem to be just fine. One day at a time as
everyone would say.
My living miracle will carry me through. And I on the other
hand will do the same.
There is always hope in the eyes of an innocent child.
Let there be hope everyday.
If only I can send hope in the prettiest packaging, I would
gladly send them to all of you struggling of whatever battle life has blessed
you with. May we open it merrily, scooping it out slowly as we carry it through
the best and worst days of our lives.
Carrying hope through.
