Don't Tell Me...

Don't tell me not to worry.

Don't tell me it's going to be OK.

Don't tell me to get used to it.

Don't tell me it will be over soon.

Don't tell me he was "chosen" because he can handle it.

Don't tell me that God has a plan. 

Don't tell me that he's strong -- I KNOW THAT.

Don't tell me we live with the hand we are dealt. 

Don't tell me it's fair; it's not. 

Don't tell me what I want to hear. 

Don't tell me that someday it will be different.

Don't tell me you're sorry.

Don't tell me to be strong; you have no idea how strong I really am.

Don't tell me not to be bitter. 

Don't tell me not to be angry.

Don't tell me not to be scared. 

Don't tell me to just trust the doctors. 

Don't tell me anything. 

Here's what I'll tell you. Life isn't fair. Josh doesn't deserve this. He shouldn't have to be strong. He shouldn't have to fight. He shouldn't have had his sternum cracked open three times by the age of 4. 

Just be honest. Tell me you don't know what to say. Tell me that if I need you, you'll be here. Tell me you love me. You love him. Let me cry to you when Josh is fast asleep. Let me scream. Let me break something. Because, wow -- I really want to break something. 

Josh's next MRI is early next week and all I feel is anger, bitterness, sadness and fear. We continuously float in purgatory. What will it tell us? Is it now? Three months? Six months? A year? 

Is it time to revisit waiting rooms and the ICU, waiting for our child to finally wake up? When we have to explain the pain and hug away the fear. When time stands still. When I live in the present, but am also transported back to his birth and each surgery thereafter -- nightmares branded on my brain. 

Don't tell me it gets easier; it doesn't.  

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