The Waiting Days

The anxiety sets in around bedtime. The moon is contrasting the darkness and yet, unlike the naivety of children, you know better then to make a wish. You've been here before, all too many times, and you know there is nothing but time. Today is a waiting day; a long, slow day that will exhaust you more emotionally than any physical activity ever could.

I had this kind of day before Hank underwent his first surgery, before I met the woman who would ultimately give us an autism label, and also while I, for the first time, had a neurologist explain our new life path with epilepsy. I stressed and grieved and played out every scenario possible when awaiting his genetic results that ultimately shattered us.

Here we are again. Waiting.

Waiting on the results of another large curveball thrown while we weren't even trying to step on the field.

It is time to wait for a phone call with a result, or a new plan, or an appointment so this can all be discussed in person. It is the kind of day where you want to be in the comfort of home, but will force yourself out into the world in a defeated attempt to kill the time. Every ringing phone will send your aching heart into a panic as will every moment that the call doesn't come.

I remember vividly the sincere difficulty of waiting as a child and I long for the joy that was usually the result. It was finally 3:00 and school was out, eventually December 25th would come around, and without a doubt my birthday came every year. When did the wait in my life start always signifying such sadness? You don't have to answer that - I'm just asking to kill time.

It is a day in the life; one that moves as terrifyingly fast as the waiting runs slow. I reflect upon the days of waiting we have overcome before and muster up just enough optimism to be reminded we have done this before, we will do this again, and this is just what we have to accept. I however, can not wait, to give my precious boy a hug after school.