If you are mother, you know pain. And if you are a mother, you know how hard it is to watch your child in pain. Whether it is holding your infant while they get their first shots or watching your teenager go through the agony of heartbreak. It is pain just the same.
And you are there to comfort. You are there to hug. To hold. To kiss away the pain. You are there to whisper in their ear, “it’ll be okay,” while wiping the tears from their cheek. You are there to brush the hair from their face while looking into their eyes to make sure the pain in subsiding. You are there to listen to them whimper, cry, scream. And they look to you. Their eyes seeking yours to connect. To make them feel better. Loved. Comforted. You are there to extend your arms and bring them in. They reach to you for an embrace, a kiss. You hold on tight and they hold tighter. They look into your eyes and feel strength and love.
I am a mother. I know pain. And I know how hard it is to watch my child in pain. I am here to comfort, hug, hold and kiss away the pain. But it ends there. I reach out to hug and to hold, but he doesn’t want to be touched. I want to kiss away his pain, whisper in his ear. But he won’t let me near him.
I reach out to touch him and he shrinks away. I try to brush his tears, but he bats my hand away. He whimpers, cries and screams, but he doesn’t look to me. He doesn’t connect with me. It’s as if I’m not even there. I extend my arms to bring him in. He kicks, thrashes and flails. He screams, “leave me alone,”. He doesn’t look into my eyes. He doesn’t reach to me for an embrace or a kiss. He just exists in his own space. Tormented and in pain. And I can’t do anything to help it. I just watch. Watch him drown in his own pain, anger, and hopelessness. I try again. I reach out, I look to him, try to tell him it will be okay.
He covers his ears. He looks down. He screams and cries. Any attempt of mine to be near him is met with resistance, if not complete denial...and often resorts in his total retreat from me. Literally and figuratively.
Imagine standing outside a house. Standing at a window, peering into a room, one hand cupped around each eye to reduce the glare and get a better view. You peek in the window, expecting to see your child playing. You expect to see him laughing, smiling, dancing, skipping, running, playing with friends. But instead you see him standing in the room alone. Crying, screaming. You watch him wrestle with complete torment. Absolute pain. He is broken, harmed, threatened and alone.
You start yelling his name, telling him, “Mommy’s here”. But he doesn’t hear you. You reach out, but your hand hits the glass. You pound on the window with your fists. Over and over again. But he doesn’t hear you. You look for his eyes, you look to meet them, connect with them. But he doesn’t see you. He doesn’t see you. He doesn’t hear you. He doesn’t feel you. He is in pain...and so are you. And there isn’t a thing you can do to get through to him, connect with him, let him know that you are there for him. You just watch the pain unfold, the torment unravel and the voice go from a cry, to a scream to silence.
And you remember to breathe. You are thankful it has ended. For now. And you wonder how long long you have until this happens again. You do what you can to hold back your tears, because in the silence, he does look at you. And if he sees you crying, it will start all over again. From the beginning. And there you will be. Standing at the window. Looking from the outside in. And praying.
