“I wanted to be mad at my husband and stay mad. I made sure he knew it. I ignored apologies, rolled my eyes as dramatic as possible, and threw some of my best hateful looks. When he outstretched his open hand on the table, our eyes met. We instantly turned into middle school girls who couldn’t contain our giggles. I tried to hold my poker face, but it was no match for the man across from me. He knows me all too well.”
“I watched her breathe so slowly. ‘It’s okay to go now. You won’t be in pain anymore.’ At 9:14 p.m. she took her last breath. Her brothers cuddled her one last time and said their final goodbyes. There’s something about seeing your 5-year-old carrying a tiny little casket that will break your heart and make you so proud all at the same time. He was always holding his little sister, even in death.”
“As a child, we moved a lot. There were always rude comments. ‘What is that red thing on your face?’ Because of my birthmark, I never had a girlfriend in high school, never went to the prom. When my dad asked me if I wanted to get treatments, I refused. ‘The only thing worse than a giant birthmark on my face would be a giant swollen, burnt and scabbed birthmark on my face.’ I had no idea it could get progressively worse.”
“I just freaking love you. Honestly, I didn’t really ‘get it’ until my 30’s; until the dramas of life started to be really critical. Lifetime level heartbreaks, pregnancies, cancers, divorces, careers, health, death. The real stuff. The real real.”
“I eagerly dialed the number. ‘My son lost both of his parents when he was 2. He’s grieving. I need guidance, and would appreciate an evaluation.’ I want to start helping him NOW instead of LATER. ‘Okay ma’am, our waitlist is over a year out.’ I was incredibly defeated. I had no idea this would be so hard to find help for my child. No clue at all. I have this inner voice that won’t quiet down. ‘Get help, Molly!’”
“I wasn’t scared to tell friends, family, or the internet. Only you. I still remember sitting on my bed with mom. You walked in on me crying. I could barely get out the words before you hung your head in disappointment and stormed off. Six months later, you took me to every doctors appointment. Six years later, you, papa, are my daughter’s world.”
“That hole I lived with for so long has been filled with and recovery, and no one can take that away from me.”
“Last week, I posted a set of family photos on social media. In one, my 5-year-old is kissing me lovingly. A distant relative replied, ‘He’s too old for this!!!’ I could feel my blood boiling.”
“How can an athletic, smart, strong young woman who has the entire world ahead of her have an incurable sickness? Even with a doctor’s note, my administration accused me of trying to get out of my contractual duties. ‘It’s ridiculous Jess keeps calling off. Does she expect us to cover her classes all of the time?’”
“The moment I gave birth to her, I noticed the doctor and nurses exchanged glances. They wrapped her up before handing her to me. ‘We want to get her cleaned up first.’ I didn’t understand. I quickly opened her up and checked. I was shocked. I told my husband, ‘God created her like that.’ The doctors were accusing me I ‘must’ve taken drugs’ while I was pregnant. ‘Her deformity is the reaction the drugs had on the baby,’ they said. Babies ‘like these’ come with ‘a lot of baggage.’ She is different, not less.”
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