Will we know what to do when our kid gets sick?
Featured in Stolen Child, First Published by Literary Mama
well, we could just change everything
or buy new things, or read things or pickle things or toss things,
clean things or eliminate things, plan things then cancel things,
organize things and supplement things, or we could, maybe we should
do nothing. or we could move furniture, move home, move schools,
move cities, move countries, move the kids into the same room
(stupid idea), move the TV into the basement (stupid idea), and
we could move towards each other arms outstretched or we could
scratch each other with our silent sadness, and wonder why
the other can’t muster the strength to pull us up, up out of this.
we could lie on the sofa in the pink cloud evenings and wonder
why and when and why again it all went so wrong, we could long
for sleep, for that treacle oblivion that transports us back to the time
before: when we would ungratefully wallow in our mundane blessings,
now looking at the wounds from the descent as the fall still falls, still
cuts and thunders us into darkness. we could lose the light in the house
on the rocks, wood smashing into splinters onto stone, debris taken
by the angry wash. you could watch the way her black eyes flicker
and fixate, flicker and fade, you could watch her fade and wait again
for the doctor to call (she doesn’t), you could watch the way leaves
eddy and fall onto the forest floor and wonder about all the things
you could have done differently, all the signs that could have been
signs: when words wouldn’t come or bumps wouldn’t heal or when
rashes traced maps across tiny backs, you could track every trail back
from birth to now, every violent forcep move, every itchy throat, every
moment you weren’t watching—should you have watched her more?
you could grind melatonin and drip amoxycillin into yoghurt,
you could stroke her small hot head with lavender-dipped thumbs
you could say "I’m so proud of you" and mean it, or you could say
"I will never let anything bad happen to you," and listen to the lie—
for haven’t you already? you could take refuge in hugs from tiny
hands, you could cry: you do cry. you could look for the light again
you could not find it. you could just remember it must still be there.
An extra note
This is one of the poems featured in my forthcoming chapbook, Stolen Child, and was originally published by Literary Mama. I wrote it during the confusion and chaos and grief and absolute desperation that my husband and I felt around the time our daughter, then just four, was diagnosed with a rare autoimmune condition called PANDAS.
In the weeks around her diagnosis, I found myself caught in a loop of intense sadness and intense rage, unable to make much sense of either. I couldn’t journal about what was happening, and I often couldn’t speak about what I was feeling, but somehow, I could write poems. There was something about the containment of poetry—the ‘safety’ of the form—that gave me somewhere to put the overwhelm when I didn’t know what else to do with it.
I’ve since become fascinated by this idea of poetry as a form of holding and containment, and by its potential therapeutic capacity. So fascinated, in fact, that I’m currently writing my MSc thesis about it. More to come on that.
Two years down the line, I still can’t read this poem aloud without choking up at the end. It’s been a long journey, and one that is still ongoing.
I’ve written a bit more about the impact of PANDAS over on Substack. For more information about PANDAS, you can visit PANS PANDAS UK.