Mother is the name for God in the lips and hearts of little children ~ William Thackery

God would not feel like running away. He would not cry, and dread and worry about the future. God would have some witty answer, He would have faith. God would not dwell or smoke or drink. God would not bury himself under blankets. God would not fear death. I am not God. Only a Mother afraid of a future that has multiple paths. Paths that lead me towards dark places and light places and in between places. Places that I cannot help but tread because my hand is firmly entwined among his tiny fingers. My son, once more leading me into a future that scares me. A future that has Echo cardiograms, and ECG’s and GI specialists and maybe even diagnosis’ that I dare not fathom.

My first journey into the world of fear began when my baby was three weeks old. Preston was diagnosed with holes in his heart. Too many to count. It was the last straw. I waited. Listening for the crack that would break me. But it did not come. That last straw was the one that could be spun into gold and my son – he recovered. My darkest days are but a faint memory and my son a happy and healthy two year old. At least I thought so…

Two months ago I noticed something odd during potty training. He seemed to have “piles” – many hemorrhoids. I took a picture with my Itouch and brought it to his GP. It was the beginning of a rectal prolapse, it was the beginning of my many worried nights. The doctor told me it was concerning. That a child his age, without a history of constipation, should not be suffering such a condition. I didn’t know what else could cause his issues. The doctor did not elaborate, only phoned his cardiologist at Children’s Hospital; so I Googled.

God would not Google. He would know that it would only set alight worries that cannot be quelled easily. I am not God. 20 percent of children my son’s age, suffering from rectal prolapse, are diagnosed with Cystic Fibrosis. CF cannot be fixed. It cannot be cut away or patched. No. These children cannot be rescued by a surgeons scalpel, only treated, temporarily. But many kids now with CF – they can live until their mid thirties. Miraculous and impressive to many researchers and doctors. Fucking Bullshit to Mothers… God probably doesn’t swear.

Fear it chews at you. Little by little it gets through the skin, and fat, and muscle, and it chews until it hits bone. You can feel it vibrating inside you, the mallow of it seeping from your wounds. I need to scream. I need to shout for it to be done. But it lingers, it maligns, it steals moments and laughter. It makes me less than a mother. It makes me pray to the God I’m not.