Late last week I received a call from my oldest son with worried words no grandparent ever wants to hear. “She’s sick, Mom.” My sweet, innocent grand-daughter was on her way to Children’s Hospital together with her dear mommy. Soon to be admitted with a tender tummy and a possible infection. I took a breath to calm my nerves, offering support to my son and his wife. Such a helpless feeling in my head.
The next morning my husband and I were off to the hospital. I was struck by the guard who stopped us at the front desk. “Who are you,” he asked in an accusatory tone? “Grandparents,” we responded in unison. There, ‘mug shots’ were taken for a pale blue badge that was stuck to the front of our jackets. I looked down at mine. Directly below my picture it read, “Grandparent,” making me feel important on that day….in some small way.
A nice lady with hair of gentle white directed us to the elevators at the end of the hall. Pressing the red button we waited until the door opened when a flood of young parents trampled out. I noticed one in particular. With her left hand she covered her mouth, while wiping tears from her eyes of brown with her right. I looked down.
The emotion was almost palpable once inside the elevator. It lingered, surrounding the tiny silver space where a button board of colored numbers lit up for me to choose. Up, up, up, we rode to the floor where our little grand-daughter waited to see us.
There she sat with her loving Mommy, happily on a small sofa near a picture window filled with sunshine. Smiles filled the room while she played with ‘new babies,’ magical ponies and read books that afternoon. Daddy joined us for “really good” mac-n-cheese, plus three or four or five brightly colored “M & M’s”as special treats to eat.
Thankfully, our grand-daughter was pronounced perfectly healthy! After a couple of days she went home with Mommy and Daddy where her baby brother and “Nimby” dog eagerly awaited her arrival. Such happy news to hear!
Still, I think of the young mother who rushed off the elevator that first day. The one whose eyes of teary brown held a recipe of heartache.
Bread of Chronic Conditions: Two tablespoons of pain, 1 teaspoon of agony, a dash of shock with a pinch of denial. Mix thoroughly together with tears in a bowl large enough to hold a soul. Form into a lifetime loaf. Bake at 350 loving degrees until strength and courage being to form. Lives begin to raise as acceptance takes shape. Gradually a ‘Momma’ becomes more at peace. When center springs forth to gentle finger-touch, remove loaf from oven to rest upon a warm kitchen counter rack. The mother is no longer afraid to believe in happiness. Her child’s innocence together with dreams and wishes become the very most important thing on earth. Together, mother with child believe that anything is possible, wishing upon stars to make future dreams come true. Before long they truly do.
*This recipe is ‘American Tested’ in kitchens by mothers everywhere.