Accepting My Child Will Never Walk

I remember reading, a few years back, about someone with cancer feeling inadequate because they weren't running marathons or raising millions of pounds for charity. They were 'just', you know, getting on, turning up for chemo, hoping for the best. I've read too about people who've become depressed (understandably) as the cancer has taken hold; felt like giving up. But those aren't the stories that make the papers; people don't want to read about that. They want INSPIRATION. Defying the odds... That kind of thing. Not just ... Well you know ... The everyday kind of suffering.  
I wondered how it would feel to have cancer and read about the people running 26 miles when you're barely fit to get to the end of your bed. Do you think 'fair play', or do you feel guilty, or unworthy, or maybe that you're just not trying hard enough?
Mind over matter and all that!
Hugh's undiagnosed condition has left his muscles very floppy. He can't walk or si…

I wouldn't change you ... But ...

I love you with all my heart son, but if I could take away your epilepsy, I would.

I sometimes wonder who you would have been without it. Would you be sitting now? Would you be walking and talking? Maybe. Maybe not. Either way the seizures are still a hinderance in your development. I don't think I realised the damage they were doing until you lost your ability to smile. When you couldn't open your eyes and you couldn't lift your head, I thought epilepsy had taken all you'd got.

You smile all the time now, my precious child; but when you look at me with such fear in your eyes, it breaks my heart. I don't know what's happening in your brain, but I know you're terrified.  It's scaring you. I wish I could make it stop.

I'm not sure what's worse; the seizures that scare you or the ones that scare me. Seeing you go blue like that will never get any easier. Seconds stretch to  minutes, minutes feel like hours. I force the air into your lungs, breathing for you while your brain resets, praying you'll breathe again.

Epilepsy doesn't make you who you are my child; you are amazing and wonderful and beautiful and brave.

Your epilepsy defines me at times though- I am scared and frightened and angry and sad.

I love you my son.
But if I could, I would take away your epilepsy in a heartbeat.



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