I feel broken. Beaten and broken.
Harriet isn’t suffering. She’s amazing. She takes my breath away with how she is coping with everything. Her listening is coming on every day and she’s even starting to say some words. She’s an absolute star.
But she’s hard work. Physically. She stumbles a lot, staggers if she stands still. She zigzags when she does walk, sometimes frighteningly close to a road, or a ledge. If she spins around a lamppost her magnets come off and stick to it, sticking her to it. Funny, maybe to a passer by, but it makes my heart hurt so bad. So. Bad.
We’ve started the complaint process so hopefully soon we’ll have some answers. Maybe that will help me feel better. Maybe we’ll fight to get her some compensation. Not that there really is any for losing your entire vestibular system, for the rest of your life, in one swift movement.
I worry about her future. Not about now, because now I’m there with her. I will catch her before she falls into the road or off the ledge. I’ll hold her hand. I’ll pick her up. I’ll protect her.
But what about when I can’t? Or when she won’t let me? That’s when the ache really kicks in. When I think about her teenage years. When I think about my teenage years. All the stupid, stupid things I did. All the risks I took. How everything is so much more riskier for her. How we went ahead with implants to make those years easier. To alleviate the worry of her not hearing a fire alarm or not understanding someone and getting into danger. How we were trying to make her life better and we’ve only made it harder. How can I forgive myself for that? How can she forgive me? How can I expect her to?
How can it be that at every turn we take something else goes wrong?
I don’t know how I am supposed to keep going. I don’t have any fight left.
I’m beaten and broken.