Four Little Children

Tom my new friend and taxi driver, dropped me off this morning at Domino’s Farms for my Pre-Op appointment. Once there, I checked in, completed forms. Next, I was poked and prodded. I sat in the lobby and waited for the physician’s assistant to explain the surgical process to me. In two weeks, hardware that held my ravaged then rebuilt ankle will be removed. Tendons will be unwrapped from freshly healed bone in hopes that it will alleviate some of my chronic pain. I am tough, but I am scared. I am scared, but I am strong. I pick up my phone and the heat from my fingertips bring it to life. As I begin to play a game I mutter in frustration, “I’m so fucking tired of this injury sucking the marrow out of my very existence.”  

I’m an observational writer. Two and a half years ago I would have laughed if you’d said such a thing. Most of my young and adult life, with the help of ADHD, OCD, married life, parenting, and plain old rushing around, I couldn’t observe more than five things at once. Once I realized that my dream was to observe and write about it, I couldn’t stop. Life was a rush. I was constantly stimulated, and inspired. I say passionate, everyone else in my life said I was obsessed.

This morning, as the lives diminished in my game, I remembered who and what I was.  Placing my phone in my purse, I began watching four little children. One boy and three girls ran wild up and down the hill outside in front of Lobby C. The girls, ranged in age from 8-11, and wore short skirts with little shirts. Their feet were clad in sandals and their long blonde hair whipped around their faces as they ran. The little boy, about 7 was clad in shorts, t-shirt and black flip flops. He ran up and down that hill, faster than his sisters did. He didn’t seem to care that  he lost his shoes in the process.

The oldest girl walked away from her siblings to stand in the stone and ivy garden. The foliage and ceramic toadstools made her look a bit like Alice when she spoke to a hookah smoking caterpillar in Wonderland. Her young charges continued to run up that hill, around the tree at the top and back down.  I’m sure if there wasn’t concrete at the bottom of that hill, they would have rolled down it. Staining their knees and elbows green, as their little brother lost his shoes again.

I sat in a comfy armchair inside, but I wanted to run with them. I wanted to walk on stick thin legs made tan by the summer sun. I wanted to be the young girl standing in the ivy garden that looked like Alice. I wouldn’t have even minded being the little boy that lost his shoes as I jumped to touch the arbor at the entrance of Lobby C.

I don’t wish to go back to that age, but I do wish I could let the wind whip my hair as I run. And to feel confident that when I run, there wouldn’t be pain. I want to suck the marrow out of life again. Maybe after this next surgery, I will.

17 thoughts on “Four Little Children

  1. Observe your heart in a happy place, somewhere you enjoy and brings you peace. Then take it with you everywhere. Yes, we internalise like crazy, especially when we are in pain. It is spirit wanting us to go through the worst that life has to offer, so that when those beautiful moments come into our lives we embrace them with such love and thankfulness because of what we’ve been through. It creates such compassion to ourselves and others because we ‘know’ the pain of the journey.
    Not that I’m putting myself in the same league of where you are at, but I’m currently suffering from an inner ear infection. Walking sideways, can’t put 2 and 2 together, and just doing day to day things is painful…so taking my own advice I stopped, found a peaceful spot and decided to meditate as I watched the world go by on the lake.
    Did you know that at a height of 30 feet, pelican shit can spray over the same distance? The man’s car that it hit ‘knows’. The poor man almost drove into the lake. Didn’t know what hit him 🙂
    And life goes on. If someone asks me what I meditated on yesterday I will tell them the complexity of the digestive system of a pelican, and that mass equals distance X height…and maybe my pain went away for a little while as I laughed at the scene before me.
    Have a lovely day Renee…but look up as you leave the building 🙂

  2. I’m sorry that you’re going through so much pain. Chronic pain is the pits—to put it mildly. Your observation of the kids was wondrous and charming. I’m in a big, cold office and, for a few minutes, I felt grass beneath my feet and warm sun rays on my neck. Thanks for that.

    I hope your surgery goes without a hitch! You’re in my thoughts. You’ve got a lot of marrow to suck out of life, yet!

  3. your strength is as deep as your words and stronger than your heart. Remember, this to is but a passing moment. One that is here to mark time, and little else. It makes you slow down and see the world instead of running through it. Slow and steady, and soon you will find your body as healed as your heart seems to be. Hugs.

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