Hope
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
--Emily Dickenson
I love Emily Dickenson, and always have. She's my favorite poet. I found this one recently, posted in part on Facebook by a mom I know who is now going through the same thing with her son that we did with Bella in September. Neurologists, MRI, waiting, worry, and that gut wrenching fear that encompasses everything you have ever known. And somewhere beneath, hope that maybe you'll scrape by. Maybe you'll get lucky, that you won't hear the words many terrified parents have heard before. You won't see a doctor shake their head and talk about treatment and things to expect that scare you half to death. Literally scare you so badly that you can't figure out how to live through it.
We got lucky. I pray she does too. I don't know her, never met her and likely never will, but my heart aches for her. For the way she feels when she lays awake and looks at her beautiful son. For the way her heart stops when they take him from her arms to poke him with needles, put him to sleep, and try and make sure that his brain will be okay. I want to hug this mom. I want to tell her that it'll be okay, and I want her to know that I've been there too, and that I'm still scared. I pray that the hope wins out for them too.
