Healing time

The doctors said that after a month (and today it has been a month) all would be healed.  Isaac's brain and body are strong again.  No more danger from an accidental head bump or hard fall.  We can continue as as we were before.  And Isaac agrees with those doctors.  He has been ready to forget all about his fall for several weeks now.  He is healed.  Just look at him this morning during his triumphant return to Saturday morning aikido:


  I'm finding, however, that one month is not sufficient healing time for my own injuries.  Those memories of watching Isaac fall, seeing him unresponsive when I called out to him, hearing his confused questions as he regained consciousness, and that long, long ambulance ride to the hospital.  Those memories still hold my heart so tightly sometimes that I feel my blood racing fast under my skin as if it all is happening still.  The strangest things knock me sideways these days.  When Isaac walks down our short driveway to check the mail, a chore he loves, I feel blown over.  What if someone is driving by? What if their attention wavers and they swerve even slightly? I cringe and shiver and hold my breath until he walks back toward me with his armful of junkmail, safe and whole still.  Sometimes even just watching him run as fast as he does almost knocks me flat with fear.  I want to ask him to slow down, be careful, walk gently, for me, please.  But I don't.  I keep the storms of panic tucked away for Isaac.  Don't get me wrong, I know he sees the shadows of my fears.  But for the most part those moments are mine alone.  Because he has healed, even if I have not.  In this thing, he is leading and in my own time, I hope I will follow.   


  1. Rachel, you're going to heal too. Glad you're back in the blogging saddle.

  2. Rachel, I have enjoyed reading your blog ever since I met Isaac at Elias's birthday party in June. I have missed you during this recent hiatus. I was delighted this morning to see a new post, then horrified to learn what had happened to your sweet chicken-whispering child. And to you.

    I offer no advice, just compassion and empathy. You have my best wishes for a gentle recovery.