I’m writing this from one of those hard recliners in a hospital room.
My youngest daughter is 19, and we’re here again.
Another hospital visit. Another round of pain. Another nurse coming through the door. Another wait to find out what medication they can give her and what the plan is from here.
She has endometriosis and ovarian cysts. She’s had five surgeries already.
She’s nineteen.
And I watch her cry in pain more days than I’d ever like to admit.
There are doctors. Specialists. Ultrasounds. Labs. New medications. Medications that don’t work. Medications that cause other problems. Appointments where you leave with another appointment. Tests that lead to more tests.
And so much waiting.
Waiting for someone to call back.
Waiting for test results.
Waiting for the doctor.
Waiting for the nurse.
Waiting for medication.
Waiting to see if this treatment might finally be the one that gives her some relief.
Meanwhile, your child is hurting, and there is absolutely nothing you can do to make it stop.
That might be one of the hardest parts of being a mom.
Because moms are supposed to fix things.
When they’re little, you put a Band-Aid on the scrape. You kiss the forehead. You sit beside the bed when they’re sick. You make the phone call. You find the answer.
Then one day they're grown, and you're sitting in a hospital room realizing there are some things you simply cannot fix.
And it is one of the most helpless feelings in the world.
I love our doctor. I trust him. I know there are incredibly good doctors and nurses trying to help her.
But I’m still her mom.
And I want someone to make my kid stop hurting.
Maybe this hits me differently because I know her pain.
I lived with endometriosis from the time I was 15 until I had a total hysterectomy at 29. Before that, I had 21 surgeries. My hysterectomy was number 22.
Twenty-two surgeries before I was 30.
I was incredibly blessed to have four children along the way.
So, when she tells me how badly it hurts, I believe her.
When she says she can't get out of bed, I understand.
When she looks completely fine to everyone else, but I know she's using every bit of energy she has just to function, I understand.
That's the thing about chronic illness that is so difficult to explain to someone who hasn't lived it.
You can look okay and be anything but okay.
You can smile.
You can put makeup on.
You can go to work or school.
You can post a picture.
And you can still be in excruciating pain.
People see the moments you manage to show up.
They don't always see what it took to get there or what happens when you get home.
And this isn't something our family deals with in just one direction.
My oldest daughter lives with multiple chronic conditions, including Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, CRPS, occipital neuralgia and endometriosis, among others.
She lives with her boyfriend now. She has her own life.
But here's something nobody tells you when your kids grow up:
The worrying doesn't move out when they do.
It never stops.
Then mt other daughter was recently diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis.
More pain.
More doctors.
More medications.
More ER visits.
More trying to figure out what works.
More watching one of my children hurt while wishing I could somehow take it from them.
And I would.
In a heartbeat.
Give it to me.
Give me their pain. Give me their diagnoses. Give me the surgeries, the medications, the appointments and the bad days.
I'll take every damn bit of it if it means they get to go live healthy, happy lives without having to think about what their bodies might do to them tomorrow.
I used to think parenting little kids was hard.
The sleepless nights. The endless laundry. The schedules. The constant responsibility of having four little humans depending on you for pretty much everything.
They were good kids. Really good kids.
But raising four children is still exhausting, and back then I remember wondering if there would ever be a point when being their mom wouldn't come with so much worry.
Turns out, the worry doesn't go away.
It just changes.
And I'd give just about anything for some of those little kid worries now.
Because watching your grown child suffer is a completely different kind of hard.
You can't scoop them up and make everything better anymore.
Sometimes all you can do is sit beside them.
Advocate.
Ask questions.
Make phone calls.
Research.
Drive to appointments.
Keep track of medications.
Push when you know something isn't right.
And sit in the uncomfortable hospital chair waiting for the next person to walk through the door.
There is one phrase I think we need to stop saying to people when they're going through something hard:
"It could always be worse."
Of course it could.
There will always be someone experiencing something worse.
But someone else's suffering does not make yours hurt less.
Something being capable of getting worse doesn't mean it isn't really fucking hard right now.
I'm allowed to be angry that my 19-year-old spends days in bed because she's hurting.
I'm allowed to be frustrated that my daughters have to think about medications and specialists and diagnoses when I wish they could just think about what they're doing this weekend.
I'm allowed to be tired.
I'm allowed to hate this for them.
And I'm still allowed to be grateful for everything we have at the exact same time.
Both things can be true.
Will we get through this hospital stay?
Absolutely.
Will we get through the next appointment, the next medication, the next flare and whatever else comes after that?
Yep.
We always do.
But getting through something doesn't mean the road getting there wasn't exhausting.
So tonight I'm sitting in this hospital room.
I'm waiting for the next nurse to walk through the door.
I'm waiting for the medication to kick in.
I'm waiting for a plan.
And I'm looking at my daughter wishing, for probably the millionth time, that I could trade places with her.
I can't.
So, I'll do the thing I can do.
I'll stay.
I'll advocate.
I'll ask the questions.
I'll believe her when she says it hurts.
I'll sit beside her for as long as she needs me.
Because sometimes loving someone through chronic illness doesn't look inspiring or brave.
Sometimes it just looks like a mom in an uncomfortable hospital chair saying:
I'm right here.