Torn Between My Head and Heart
As I wandered in to the cold, white doctor’s office I sunk in to the blue cloth chair and glanced up. Switching my attention from poster to poster of anatomy of various organs.
I didn’t know what to think. Anna is only thirteen years old, how does a young girl deal with such a tragedy? How does a mother deal with this? I never thought I would have to bury my own daughter. I can only imagine how much this news will kill her… She lives to run. I can’t help but think back to last winter; we discouraged her to run outside through the snow, John and I bought her a brand new treadmill and she still insisted on running in the fresh air. Now that damn thing just sits in the basement coated with two layers of dust. I’m sure not going to use it.
The teams of the best doctors in the hospital tried to sugar coat the painful news, but I saw right through them. They kept repeating that they hoped to try some new medicine on my baby girl to help with the pain-my husband, John, and I, stunned, hesitantly agreed. I took a moment and thought back to this summer, we took a family road trip to Orlando, just a few hours south of us. We were a happy, healthy, normal family: mom, dad, and daughter. I snapped back in to reality within minutes and began to take in the lists upon packets of information, procedures, and side effects that slowly piled on top of the light brown heavily used doctor’s desk. For a second I blanked out, just thinking about the doctor’s news over and over again. Repeating the reality seemed to ease my anxiety for just a few seconds. I snapped back in to reality and gasped for breath, my whole self was engulfed by the traumatic events and it didn’t know how to react. I began to see spots and felt woozy; I put my head in my knees and took a few minutes to calm down. My body felt like it was shutting down, Anna wasn’t getting better anytime soon, the doctors had confidence that their treatment would give her at most until her fifteenth birthday.

John and I sat in the bare, unwelcoming office for what felt like fifteen minutes. Neither of us said anything for a while until he expressed his desire for Anna to still lead as much of a normal life as possible. We unanimously agreed that we would work around doctors’ appointments and her restrictions as well as we could which required me to quit my full-time job as a dental hygienist.
My husband placed his hands on the black leather arm rests and pushed himself out of the creaky dark blue chair, “I’m going to see how Anna is doing.”

I felt a pang of guilt in my chest. I was torn; my head told me to follow him hand in hand and exhibit a sense of positivity for my helpless daughter. My heart couldn’t stand to see her lying there helpless, weak, and wired to multiple bulky, beeping machines.

What advice can the doctors give a mother of a dying child? I know I need to stay positive, but how long am I supposed to keep this fake act going?

John gingerly spoke my name to get my attention. As I glanced up my eyes locked right on the anatomical poster of the human heart, I immediately locked my eyes on him. I knew what I had to do.