The doctors used words I didn’t understand at first and then understood too well. Spinal cord. Incomplete injury. T-something, a number, a letter. They talked about swelling and time and hope and no-guarantees. They were kind. They were careful. And what it all came down to, underneath the careful words, was this: my little girl who raced me to the mailbox was never going to run again.
She was eight years old.
I want to tell you I was strong for her. The truth is more complicated. In the hospital, in front of Mia, I was a rock. I smiled. I told her we’d figure it all out together. I braided her hair and read her books and lied to her face about how everything was going to be okay.
And then I’d go down to my car in the parking garage, sit in the driver’s seat, and come apart. I’d cry so hard I couldn’t breathe. I’d grip the steering wheel and scream where nobody could hear me. And then I’d wipe my face, check my eyes in the mirror, and go back upstairs and be a rock again.
