Mama, "Why is she BROKEN?", the girl asked, tugging on her mama's sleeve. Both of her georgous big brown eyes were intently staring at me,
one arm firmly attached to mom, and the other elbow deep down the back of her pants as she scratched at some hidden irritant.
Mama was busy - too busy to answer her, too busy to even slow the frantic pace at which she pressed the clerk to continue calling all the stores for a specific garment in a specific size, just right for her. The Brown Eyed Girl scratched and stared, repeating her query to Mama at ever smaller intervals, in an ever louder voice. Mama, in her stylish clothes, fit body, and what could only be described as "shopping ferver", never missed a beat. Her efforts to find her "Perfect Blouse" were equal in intensity to her daughter's efforts to find out why the strange looking lady was "broken".
Could I feel the heat from his embarrased, red face from behind me, or was that just my imagination? I sat there in the borrowed mall wheelchair, breathing through an oxygen canula, my lap piled high with new clothes for Will, pretending not to notice that I was being stared at like some freak at a side show.
Will, who had waited patiently for weeks for me to have a "good day" so we could go to the mall. Will, who at the age of 12 has to push his mom around in a wheelchair if he wants to go to the mall. He had been so tireless, so respectful and kind during the whole shopping trip. Maybe his embarrasement was just my imagination, maybe he wasn't even paying any attention to the Brown Eyed Girl. But on the other hand, maybe he was.
After what seemed like forever, I leaned around and suggested to Will that we go to a different checkout counter. He didn't say a word, just started pushing me and we went on our way. His silence confirmed my fear, for you see, Will is never "silent". We escaped the gawking stare of the scratching, tugging, questioning Brown Eyed Girl.
But the words echo still, "Mama why is she BROKEN?"
one arm firmly attached to mom, and the other elbow deep down the back of her pants as she scratched at some hidden irritant.Mama was busy - too busy to answer her, too busy to even slow the frantic pace at which she pressed the clerk to continue calling all the stores for a specific garment in a specific size, just right for her. The Brown Eyed Girl scratched and stared, repeating her query to Mama at ever smaller intervals, in an ever louder voice. Mama, in her stylish clothes, fit body, and what could only be described as "shopping ferver", never missed a beat. Her efforts to find her "Perfect Blouse" were equal in intensity to her daughter's efforts to find out why the strange looking lady was "broken".
Could I feel the heat from his embarrased, red face from behind me, or was that just my imagination? I sat there in the borrowed mall wheelchair, breathing through an oxygen canula, my lap piled high with new clothes for Will, pretending not to notice that I was being stared at like some freak at a side show.
Will, who had waited patiently for weeks for me to have a "good day" so we could go to the mall. Will, who at the age of 12 has to push his mom around in a wheelchair if he wants to go to the mall. He had been so tireless, so respectful and kind during the whole shopping trip. Maybe his embarrasement was just my imagination, maybe he wasn't even paying any attention to the Brown Eyed Girl. But on the other hand, maybe he was.
After what seemed like forever, I leaned around and suggested to Will that we go to a different checkout counter. He didn't say a word, just started pushing me and we went on our way. His silence confirmed my fear, for you see, Will is never "silent". We escaped the gawking stare of the scratching, tugging, questioning Brown Eyed Girl.
But the words echo still, "Mama why is she BROKEN?"
Mama
Why
Is
She
BROKEN?
*B*R*O*K*E*N*
*B*R*O*K*E*N*
Mama
Why
Am
I
Broken?
Why
Am
I
Broken?
GOD WHY AM I BROKEN?
WHY CAN'T I GET WELL OR DIE AND END THE PAIN? WHY THE BROKENESS? WHY THE MIDDLE GROUND? THE SUB-EXISTENCE BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH IS NO EXISTANCE AT ALL; DYING MORE EVERY DAY, BIT BY BIT, ONE NEW DIAGNOSIS AFTER ANOTHER IN A CASCADE OF PROCEDURES, CODES, DRUGS, DOCTORS, AND HOSPITALS. TRYING TO MAINTAIN SOME TYPE OF DIGNITY AND POSITIVE OUTLOOK THROUGH IT ALL - FOR THE SAKE OF MY CHILDREN. I ADMIT THAT SOMEHOW, IN THE BACK OF MY MIND, I ALWAYS THOUGHT SLOW WASTING AWAY WAS A TORTURE UNIQUELY RESERVED FOR THE "WICKED". THAT MY LOVING GOD WOULD BLESS HIS BELIVERS WITH QUICK AND PAINLESS TRANSITIONS OUT OF THIS WORLD. I KNOW THAT WAS JUST A FANTASY, A WISH THAT I THOUGHT WOULD COME TRUE IF I HELD ONTO IT LONG ENOUGH. NOW IT HAS COME TO THIS. A WRETCHED, CRUEL EXISTANCE THAT REVOLVES AROUND PILL SCHEDULES, INJECTION SCHEDULES, TOO MUCH SLEEPING, AND A CONSTANT TETHER TO AN OXYGEN MACHINE. IS THIS MY REWARD FOR LOVING YOU? FOR WORSHIPING YOU? FOR TEACHING MY CHILDREN TO LOVE YOU? FOR BEING FAITHFUL? MAYBE IT'S TRUE THAT YOU AREN'T EVEN AWARE OF ME - ME PERSONALLY. IT'S EASIER TO BELIEVE THAT THAN TO BELIEVE YOU ARE ALLOWING THIS TO HAPPEN. I DON'T WANT TO BELIEVE THAT YOU KNOW ME PERSONALLY, THAT YOU KNOW WHAT IS GOING ON, THAT YOU SEE MY BODY WASTING AWAY AND THE PAIN IT IS CAUSING EVERYONE. I DON'T WANT TO BELIEVE THAT YOU WOULD LET THAT HAPPEN. NOT TO ME, AND NOT TO AUNT MARY, AND NOT TO OLAN, NOT TO DICK. I HAVE TRIED FOR SO LONG TO HOLD ON, TO BELIEVE, TO FIND SOMETHING GOOD IN EVERY SITUATION, BUT I AM SO TIRED, SO VERY TIRED.
WHY AM I BROKEN?
WHY IS SHE BROKEN?
WHY WERE THEY BROKEN?
WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY?
WHY IS SHE BROKEN?
WHY WERE THEY BROKEN?
WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY?
Yes, it's true I am broken. Broken from the inside out, thoroughly broken in spirit and flesh. But my broken heart aches the most of all.
