Posted by on Feb 26, 2011 in Family, Kids, Mom stuff, Personal | 10 comments

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"It's not a contact sport" my behind.

Thursday a song about unrequited love kept running through my head as I tried desperately to fly over traffic to rush my 16-year-old to the hospital after he broke his wrist in a soccer scrimmage.  Funny how a music score can play silently in the midst of life sometimes, especially when on the surface it has nothing to do with what's going on.  

Grenade.  Sounds war-related but it's a love song, which I guess could be war-related but shouldn't be…none of which has anything to do with my thoughts other than that's how I think, a maze of rambles. 

I'd catch a grenade for ya…  My hazards are blinking and I'm tryin' to do 90 but heavy traffic keeps me 15 mph below the speed limit.  Is that angels keeping us safe?  Curses are on my lips.  

Throw my hand on a blade for ya…  He maintains stoic game face until his coaches and teammates are specks in my rearview. Only then does he melt into silent puddle.

I'd jump in front of a train for ya…   When he couldn't move his hands to wipe his face–his right supports the broken bones of his left–I claw for tissues in my purse-abyss and find a used napkin to erase tears.  He doesn't pull away.

You know I'd do anything for ya… It's an honor to be the the only one who'll see this side; he knows a mother understands how tears prove strength, not weakness.  He regains control exactly when we reach the Emergency Room door.  

I would go through all this pain….  I think about all the mothers who have children with tenuous medical conditions; two are on my current radar–one, whose son at nine years old has already broken 59 bones; another, whose daughter has been through and survived more in ten years than I can wrap my brain around.  There is no comparison between this singular event in my son's life and the daily challenges and heartache they face for their children.  

Take a bullet straight through my brain…  My heart breaks for the families who've suffered unimaginable loss.  Thomas' pain is temporary; others face second-to-second lifelong pain and I know we're the lucky ones.  This is when I know life ISN'T fair–why should my children live a relative pain-free, easy life and others wonder where their next meal is coming from or if anyone loves them or why they have to be so sick?  Life's not fair and I know it and I thank God how good we have it…guilt slithers in; it might be false but it feels true.

Yes, I would die for you….  I put my hand on his leg and pray for Thomas and wish his pain could transfer to me.  I want to bear it for him.  Is this God's image imprinted on my heart?  But it doesn't work that way, does it?  Though a piece of my heart lives outside my body and within his own, I can't live his life for him.  This won't be the last time he hurts physically, and the thought of future emotional pain isn't one I care to entertain before I have to.  He'll live life the way we all do–a mixture of beauty, loss, depth, breadth, joy, pain, victory, failure, forgiveness, redemption.

175291_1862180680601_1423472386_2038128_1960061_o I doubt Bruno Mars was thinking about his mother when he wrote Grenade…but I think he sums up how we feel pretty well….

UPDATED 3/1/11:  Thomas has to have surgery scheduled for my husband's birthday.  :(