I See You, Weary Medical Parent
I see you, weary medical parent. In this moment, like so many others, your fatigue tempts you to believe that you are alone. This journey is hard. It wasn’t what you expected, and you aren’t sure how you will keep going. But I see you. I see you, weary medical parent.
I see you opening those tired eyes to a dark room filled by the hissing and humming of machines. I see you stepping out of bed to check on your baby, taking care to be as silent as possible, so you don’t disturb their slumber. I see you taking that deep breath in as you memorize every curve of their face, every hair on their head. In these quiet moments before the start of the day, before everyone needs you all at once, I see you.
I see you peering out the window as the sun begins to come up and you place your coffee cup in the microwave - for the first time, but certainly not the last. I see you making breakfast, packing lunches, and sneaking small bites of it all to hold you over until you can sit down to feed yourself. I see you brushing messy heads of hair, picking out school clothes, and packing up backpacks in between morning medication and respiratory regimens. I see you kissing some of your babies goodbye as they head off to start their day, praying hard for the Lord to keep them safe, as you care for those still inside your walls. In these early morning hours, as you hope for the best of the day ahead, I see you.
I see you as you gather the strength to get yourself dressed and wash your face. These days, a hot shower should feel comforting, but at times, it’s just one more thing you have to do. I see you. You’re preparing yourself for the tasks ahead. One thing at a time. Just keep going.
I see you as you gather all of the supplies your child needs for a trip to the doctor or to run an errand. I see you packing extras of everything - just in case. You pause to take in all of the piles of things scattered around the house - the clothes, the dishes, the school art projects, the medical bills on the kitchen counter. I see you beating yourself up for not keeping a tidier home, but you have to remember that your home is meant to be lived in. There will be a season when it’s easier to keep things tidy, but it will lack the sound of sweet voices and the pitter-pattering of tiny feet.
If see you as you pack up the car, checking the house a few too many times. The stove is off, the alarm is on. With your kiddo in the car, buckled up and ready to go, your body is already tired from the events of the day. There’s a drive ahead, an appointment to attend, errands to run, and advocacy to be done. But remember: one thing at a time. Right now, that thing is to buckle up and make that drive. As you head off for the day’s adventure, I see you.
I see you working to calm your body as you pull into the parking lot, practicing your deep breathing and wondering how people can be so careless on the road. I see you thinking of how to unpack the car as quickly as possible so that you don’t risk a late fee to this appointment. I see your strong body lifting all of that equipment and arranging it to be perfectly functional before you get your baby safely strapped in their seat. I see you sigh as you carry multiple bags on your shoulders, lock the car, and begin to push the stroller.
“Here we go, baby!” you say with a cheerful tone. It calms your baby, and calms you, too (almost).
I see you in that exam room fighting for the care your child deserves. I see you controlling your tongue even when you feel like you can’t. I see you, the expert on your child, showing medical professionals what it means to be an advocate. It shouldn’t be this hard. You shouldn’t have to fight this hard, but you do, and I see you.
I see you rolling into the drive back home. You’re exhausted, but relieved that momentary concerns didn’t cause the day to take a sudden turn. I see you settling back in and reorganizing your supplies and equipment as other tiny humans rush to get your attention. You’re not sure if there’s more coffee left in the pot, but having some now might risk you losing hours of sleep you can’t afford to miss.
You’re not sure where this last little push of energy comes from, but you find it. I see you push forward as you prepare dinner, set the table, and make sure everyone is fed. I see you clearing the table after they’ve finished, ushering them off to the bedtime routine. I see you checking to make sure homework is done, evening medications are administered, and everyone brushes their teeth. In a final burst of chaos at the end of the day, I see you providing a source of comfort before they close their eyes and fall asleep.
I see you, weary medical parent, in those final hours of the day. I see you struggling to calm your mind and truly rest. I see you in a state of shock over the sudden quiet, contemplating if you should do something in this time for yourself or just crawl into bed and go to sleep. Either way, in these final hours of the day, you deserve to know just how strong you are. I am proud of you, and you should be, too.
I know it is tempting to feel isolated and alone in this journey. I know many will not understand, and you will so often wonder how on Earth you will carry on. But if there is one thing I know to be true, you will. You will carry on. You are seen, you are treasured, and you are doing a great work.
I see you, weary medical parent. You are never alone.