“Is there anything wrong, mama?”
My six-year-old will ask while she lays her head of soft brown locks on my chest. She wraps her little arms as far as they will go to offer comfort on those days when I feel less than whole. Maybe no one knows the way she does…not even her yet.
It’s there some days. That tendency to have a pity party and feel sorry for myself. Some days I just get fed up because I feel like we’ve been through too much. Isn’t it enough? How much more can we take? Can it be someone else’s turn to be strong and inspiring for once?
We had to do a stroke. We had to pull it together and do pediatric cancer. We had to do eighteen months apart. We had two more strokes. A coma. Rehab. And this body that takes a lot of work.
We have had enough.
We really have.
And if not WE have had enough, I have had enough.
I’m tired of always struggling. I’m tired of always fighting. I’m tired of always being the one to make choices that are strong.
Then my daughter puts her soft arms around me. Arms full of life and expectation. She’s expecting that I’ll never give up. She never did. She’s expecting my fighting spirit. The one I told her she was full of every time they did something painful to her. She expects that I’ll be just as strong as she was and just as much of a fighter.
For that girl who had cancer at two-years-old and fought it for years, I can fight too.
Never letting her down.