If I Could See

N.B.: You may not want to read this post during breakfast.  It involves bodily functions.  I'll try to go light on the details, but I'm just gonna have to say the word "poo."  Gah, I  just used "poo" in the same paragraph as breakfast.  GAH! I just used it in the same sentence! 

It all started with the anxiety of our Thanksgiving trip.  If you missed it, you can read about it here and here.  Jack forgot about his body because he was so busy defending his brain from the onslaught of a holiday trip.  So he could no longer tell that he needed to go poo.  And when I got him to try, he was too hiked up let anything go.  When he finally got home and relaxed, well, by then it was painful.  Very painful.

Which made him never want to poo again.

Which meant I had to do a suppository.  On a scared little boy, who, though he can't squeeze my hand tight, has a man-size grip when he's terrified. 

And he still couldn't go. 

I knew we'd be facing an enema, but I didn't want to take the hit for that one.  Mama was already responsible for two suppositories.  So off we went to the pediatrician.  Just being able to say, "I don't want to do this either, but the doctor says we HAVE to," gave me comfort.  Hey.  A brave face only gets me so far.

And the doctor said we had to.

Then Jack was sitting on the toilet and I was sitting on a stool at his feet, putting my arms around his shoulders.

He kept asking, "Will it hurt?  Will it hurt?  Do I have to push?  How hard?  Will it hurt?  Did I cry?" in a constant barrage of questions.

I tried comforting him, telling him it would be okay.  I tried joking with him, keeping it light.  I wondered how I could NOT traumatize the kid for life. 

I knew he was worried.

But I forgot. I forgot how much I relied on facial expressions to read someone.  See, Jack can't use his face to express emotions.  He can't raise his eyebrows, widen his eyes, turn his mouth down, grimace.  He can smile, laugh, or cry.  But he can't furrow his brow, narrow his eyes, or scowl.

And then I looked down at his little hand and saw it shaking.  Shaking down to his fingertips.

The poor kid was terrified.

And my heart broke.

If I could see the fear on his face, I'd see it every time we went in a crowd, every time ice breaks, every time a camera flashes, every time a zipper zips.

If I could see his fear, I'd see it every time I leave, every time he climbs a playset, every time people laugh loudly, every time someone moves fast.

If I could see his fear, I'd see it every time a dress flaps, every time someone snaps open a plastic bag. 

If I could see his fear, my heart would be in a million pieces.

But I can't see his fear.  All he has is a constant barrage of questions.  And I have to know this when I hear those questions over and over again:

He is terrified.


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