It turned out to be a much more emotional morning than we expected.

Long talks, even disagreements with doctors; we sat for an hour waiting for a blood test, and in front of us, a small boy lay on the floor screaming in rage and terror at seeing a doctor. It was one of the most piercing and relentless sounds either of us had ever heard from a child, and it was wrenching, jarring, and painful. We felt for the poor mother, the doctors who tried, and the boy who was kicking, lashing out, and shrieking almost deafly.

We don’t know what his medical issue was, but I guessed some autism; his poor mother was apologetic and helpless; the other mothers in the waiting room tried to comfort her as she tried to apologize; the staff was bewildered and stymied, but no one could touch the boy, or reason with him, and the mother choose to wait it out and stay.

He never did stop, not while we waited, not while I had blood drawn, not when he left and was carried outside.

We all felt helpless; the doctors came out and tried to talk to the boy, offer him stickers, and tell him stories. Nothing stopped the awful screams. How terrible for everyone – the boy, his mother, the doctors, the anguished mothers in the waiting room, nodding their heads, urging the mother not to be embarrassed. Sometimes sadness like that brings us all together; it is a much more human instinct than hatred and anger.

I get chills up and down my spine when I think of it. It hit both of us very hard.

That shook both of us up and cast a gloomy cloud on an already difficult day. I feel OK about my surgery, but it has also left me somewhat disconnected; I have to think about it before writing about it. The poor boy’s screams are still ringing in my head.

I had a long, long morning (so did Maria), doctors, surgery preparations, even more, blood work, phone calls, lists, trips to the pharmacy, warnings, and issues, medicines, puzzles. And the same mother and child.

We have so many questions; there are not that many answers. It was frantic and chaotic; we were both drained and exhausted.

We both got home drained like a bathtub; Maria went for a walk in the woods; her beloved orphan woods are healing; I got some fresh soil for my garden beds and wore myself out distributing them to the beds. Then we both held hands and just sat silently together.

I will write about my doctor visits shortly, but I felt a strong call to follow the light; it is, in many ways, my way to heal and take a  drink of life. I’m a creature of light now; it is my holy water and consolation. It brings me up and lights my heart and soul. I need it. It washes the bad out of me and away from me.

I took a flower blooming inside and outside for a few minutes and into the light.

 

Old lamp in the living room, sunrise.

 

Zinnia, watching over me as I write in the late afternoon.

 

I am always drawn to the light on the hay in the big barn. It tells a lot of stories. It is cleansing to me.

 

 

Minnie was out of the basement again today, re-discovering her love for the sun, luxuriating in the day’s warmth.

Kate is up with the dawn, waiting for work.

Maria at dawn, telling stories of the orphaned woods.