She says “I can’t, I can’t,” and I keep telling her that she can.
And she hates me for it. (I don’t really blame her.)
I think “I can’t, I can’t,” but I don’t get to say it out loud. I get to talk to doctors, talk to the insurance, brightly assure her brother that she’s fine, just fine, they’re taking good care of her, we have to believe she’s getting better; let’s go do something fun together while I’m home; let’s see if Lemur or Mario can play!
I don’t get to “I can’t” because she needs me and because if I can’t, who can?
One foot in front of the other. Because I can until she can, herself. Even if we all know I’m just faking it.
[Chickadee is in the hospital again. I will be huddled up with the family until further notice.]