I thought my days in the hospital were behind me. My pain was still with me and sometimes it would be enough to bring me to my knees and cry in a corner alone, but I wasn’t going to let that put me back in.
Thankfully it isn’t me this time in the hospital, which honestly I think is worse. Now I get to watch my little sister suffer in a way I am all to familiar with, the cries of ‘I can’t take it anymore.’ still seeming fresh out of my mouth are now coming out of hers.
Then comes the apologies, sorry for everything. It is time to repent and hope that it gets better. Then the pain sets in once more, never truly removed from the start anyway and pleas to make it go away.
Fear, ‘why can’t they help me? What is wrong with me? They think I am crazy!’
No one deserves that, most of all not her. A childhood ripped away by this and then six years later when she should be focusing on a boy breaking her heart or what color mascara she wants to buy she is now fighting, not for her life but for her sanity.
About a third of the time the cause of neuropathic pain cannot be determined, so they diagnose them idiopathic neuropathies, a catch all for a problem that they don’t know about. Maybe it brings families comfort in having something to call it, even if it means we don’t know what the hell it is.
So as I sit by her bedside and watch carefully for any clue of pain, to run to the nurse and beg her to call the Doctor and try something new, something stronger, even if they don’t have anything stronger.
Countless hours of research gone into the matter a not-so-selfless act, not for her but for myself and I am powerless at bringing the relief she so desperately needs. She needs help and no one can bring it to her but we still try, just hang in there a little bit longer, you can do it.
We are reduced to cheerleaders.
So as I stand in front of her bed with my head on hers, griping her feet so hard that my hands are shaking and are on fire because it brings her a touch of relief while they stick her with yet another needle… I am left with only words to comfort her.
‘I can’t do this.’ She screams
I am left to whisper, ‘Yes you can, just a little longer, relief is coming.’
‘Don’t tell me that.’ She says in frustration
Shortly after she is apologizing, a good person to her core, even in her pain she still feels bad about showing it.
All I can do now is remind her that I was once where she was and that it gets better, so I hug her close and say the only two things I can think of that I wanted to hear in her shoes.
‘You’re not alone, you’re never alone.’ and of course, ‘I love you.’
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