Tuesday, May 3, 2016
After a Big Seizure and Before Dressing
There's something about pulling a sock over Sophie's slender foot that brings tears. It's a tug at the heart, at the eyes, at the arch in her foot that resists. I'll jerk it over some days, frustrated. Help me out, I'll say. Sometimes, goddamnit. I'll gently work it over on other days, a whimper in my throat.
It's difficult to defend the integrity of another person who can't do it for herself. It wears on the soul. The wearing, though, is like clothes. A garment to mask vulnerability. The wearing is from the outside, not her. It's from you. We shouldn't have to defend or even wear the clothes.
To be naked is to be true.
You would know this if you did this. Pulled socks over feet.
(But what does she actually do? She doesn't really learn, does she? I think I'd rather not be alive. I don't want to be a burden to my children. We aborted the baby because of the defect.)
All life while alive has value and the value is not something measured. There's no counterweight to balance.
I can whimper, shed tears, be impatient. I can also feel honored. All of it. Honor in the doing.
Do you get that?