whatever that meant
The diagnosis was just sitting beside me,
I tried to ignore it,
But it incessantly pressed into the side of my ribs,
Flooding of tears,
Leaving me in a messy puddle.
To understanding it,
To putting a future to its title,
I couldn’t depict it,
Yet I knew it wasn’t good.
It meant different.
It meant struggle.
It meant what I couldn’t even begin to imagine.
A word now tormenting me,
In that I could never own it again,
Green with envy of those that would.
It also sat beside him,
Yet to consume it as his own,
Yet to let it define him in any shape or motion.
Neither gelled together,
One sat separate from the other,
There was Isaac,
Then there was cerebral palsy.
Whatever that meant.
Just a baby of a mere dozen weeks,
He looked just like the rest.
Innocence, purity, wide eyes.
Stay like this forever I beg.
I couldn’t be that mum,
A son with a disability,
Even enunciating the word,
Is sour in my mouth.
And somehow saying it aloud made it burn.
Too mortified at the reality,
I tried to push it a bit further away,
Leaving it to fester,
Fantasising it would just dissolve in due course.
And simply leave me with my babe,
To be lost in those dark, old soul eyes.
Yet I found myself spending the days trying to rub out the stains it insisted on leaving behind.