Someone to cry over me

As I sit writing this, I am in a slightly drugged up state.
Not as clear minded as normal.

But write I must.

Five years ago, I herniated two discs and tore a ligament in or around my spine.

It was pure agony.
Worse than labor.
Worse than spraining my ankle.
Worse than the time a metal shower curtain rod fell on my nose.

It was bad.
6+ months of physical therapy, prescription painkillers, and things were much better.
And stayed that way for the most part for 5 years.

Then came this last Saturday.
For no special reason, I woke up, almost unable to walk.
The pain slowly built, got worse and worse until I shuffled into urgent care on Sunday, and by Monday was completely confined to bed.
By Tuesday, even with painkillers and muscle relaxers in my system, it took 20 minutes for Jeff to get me out of bed, and down the stairs to our car, so that he could take me to the orthopedic doc.
I felt like the little girl who stands on her father's feet so that they can dance.
I clung to him, and he lifted me up, my own back unable to support my weight.
My legs weakened by pain, lacking the strength to walk for themselves.

When we arrived at the doctor's office, Jeff found a wheel chair for me, again lifted me from my seat, and gently placed me into the moving chair.
I was completely helpless, completely dependant on him.

The orthopedic surgeon, bless him, heard my history, took x-rays to make sure there was nothing new showing up, and then gave me a scrip for steroids. The best anti-inflammatory drug to help reduce swelling, which would in turn help with the muscle spasms, and the pain.

It is Thursday now, and and with the help of a back brace and some awesome, make me loopy drugs, I can walk on my own, use the bathroom on my own, and I'm sure my dear husband is happy to not hear my pathetic whimper every time I move.

But I must tell you about Saturday.
Saturday, Charlie became my hero.
Saturday evening, while Jeff carried 3 sleeping children in from the car, I crawled my way up the stairs to our bedroom.
Unaware that I was being observed, I cried, and sobbed as I made my way up the stairs.
The pain was immense.
But through my own hysterics, I heard someone else crying.
It was Charlie.
Still being a mother, I asked him what was wrong.
He just looked at me through his tears, and asked "what's wrong with you?"
In a flash I saw how it would look from his 7 year old perspective.
His mother, the one who comforts him, who dries his tears and makes everything better, was helpless, vulnerable, and sobbing.
And that scared him to death.

As I made my way to the top stair and attempted to stand up, he came to me, to hug me, to get comfort in a scary moment for him.
I asked him to help me walk to my bedroom.
I could feel his little muscles straining to help his mom make it to the bed.
He plugged the heating pad in for me, arranged my pillows the way I needed them, and continued to cry as I maneuvered my way into bed.

After tucking me in, he came around to the other side and layed down with me.
We both layed there crying for quite some time.
I finally realized I needed to reassure him that I would be alright.
That I was in pain, but that it would be ok, and that I wasn't going to die.
After hearing that, his crying slowed down.
I told him how proud I am of him.
How thankful I am that he is my son.
What a wonderful boy he is.
Then I asked him to say a prayer for me.
He said he would.

Jeff then came in and took him to bed.
Charlie said his prayer, and told his Dad "I have faith dad. I have faith that Jesus is going to make mom better"
Jeff came and told me, crying a little, then I cried some more.
What a wonderful boy.
How glad I am for his faith.

I am better partly because of Charlie.
How could I not allow his faith to also work it's way into my own heart?
If my son has that faith in Jesus Christ, how could I not?
Over the last couple of days I have layed in my bed, wondering what I am supposed to learn from this experience.
What weak thing in me is being made strong through this trial?
I found my answers, some too personal to share.
But I realized that I could learn through this physical suffering.

What did I learn?

First, that our bodies are too precious, too much of a miracle to be taken for granted, to be treated poorly.

That we don't always appreciate what we have until it is taken from us.
I learned that I have friends and family who love us, who have been willing to serve our family and help us when I have been unable to do a thing for my husband or children.
Meals being brought in, friends and family babysitting.
Offers for as much help as we needed.

But as I look back over the last few days, I see the face of Charlie.
Crying with me.
Praying for me.
Hugging me and helping me into bed.
His love for me showing through that tear stained face.
His concern for me beyond that of a typical 7 year old.

Sometimes, we just need someone to cry with us, for us, over us.
No words being said, just someone to cry over me.
That my friends, is love.