When I was diagnosed, it was fine. But this time, it’s my daughter
In my mind’s eye, I saw a memory of another night many years ago, when I teetered at the edge of a very different kind of cliff. I was in my teens then, and I knew that if I could just make it through without falling, I would be all right.
The memory of that far-off night merged with the chasm I was in now like clasped fingers in a handshake, two unique, far-apart worlds touching each other, intertwining to transmit a quiet understanding.
Shira is four years old. She’s my youngest, my sweetheart, born in my fifth decade of life.
She’s in the bath, and I notice that I can see the shape of her ribs. Wait, what? Shira is my little pudge. I don’t think I ever noticed she had ribs. Come to think of it, her skin is a paler shade of white than usual. A little wisp of worry tickles my gut, but disappears before I can attend to it.
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