My insides turn to rocks when I see them.  One here, two there...appearing all over.  Tiny ones, large ones.  As small as the tip of a pen, as large as a quarter.  On her legs, her arms, her tummy.  Her back.  Everywhere.  I'll notice them at bath time.  And they suck my breath away.  I see them in the morning, while dressing her.  I know she doesn't bump herself in all those places.  I know they aren't normal.

Those bruises.

I see bruises on other children and have the same reaction.  But they only have two.  And they are a normal color.  And my breath returns. 


Only now, after fighting this battle for a year--this endless search for answers--am I finally getting doctors' attention.  The one who claimed a year ago they were "from the way she's held" finally admitted last week that he's deeply concerned.  Suddenly admitted he's changed his mind.  Send her to another specialist, he said.  These are not normal, he stressed.

Ya think? 

As more bruises appear in more places, as more symptoms surface and current ones increase, I get more scared.  That feeling in my gut, that voice whispering my deepest fear, surfaces.  Grows constant.  I can hardly drown it out lately. 

What is wrong with my baby? 

Now, we await more appointments with more specialists.  More time ticks by as I stare, count, finger the bruises.  As she points to them: "Bruises, Mommy.  One, two, four-nine-ten." 

I still fight this fight.  I still seek answers.  My silent war rages on.  I will not stop until these bruises subside or until someone is able to give me The Answer. 

Seems like one of those "When it rains, it pours" times in life.  When every time you turn around, someone's suffering a major loss, learning terrible news, or losing a long-fought battle.  If not me, someone else dear to me is affected. 

I spent eleven days in bed.  I couldn't get well.  And I couldn't function.  Taking care of the girls was impossible, and taking a shower was exhausting.  Watching my girls from the couch, hearing them play from my bedroom was killing me.  I needed to be well.   For them.  Several trips into the doctor, two rounds of antibiotics, and a ridiculous amount of vitamin C, and I'm finally on the mend.  Still trying to kick this over a month after getting sick is trying my patience...and teaching me patience.  We take our health for granted.

While I was lying in warm baths, popping handfuls of pills, and trying to rest with two little ones, someone else close to me was fighting her own battle.  As I laid there for nearly two weeks, I just kept thinking of her.  Praying for her.  While I was complaining and whining, she was strong and resilient as her life changed drastically.  I take my blessings for granted. 

He was amazing.  To call him one of my dearest friends would be doing him great injustice.  I started writing him letters when I was in elementary school.  He always wrote back.  Always.  Years flew by, and he heard about everything--my love for books and writing, my school days, college escapades, and more books.  My grandfather was such a loving man.  I knew that time is always short.  I made sure to call him, write him.  Visits were precious, and I drank up every second.  And then the call came.  He was gone.  And I miss him painfully.  I take my family for granted. 

She's praying so hard for her baby's life.  Every second, every kick, she's praying he'll grow.  And he's not.  He's likely not going to make it.  She's a little over halfway through her pregnancy.  For the second time, she's facing losing her unborn baby.  Having to bury a second child.  I am praying so hard.  Yet, he's still sick.  Not growing.  I truly don't understand.  I take my babies for granted. 

Her husband is in a dangerous place.  He's a few months shy of coming home from his deployment.  Things are heating up over there, and violence is growing.  She's fearful.  And so brave.  She's worried, yet continues to move forward.  Scared, but smiles for her children.  What if's cross her mind, I know.  I've been there.  She lives without her husband, praying it's temporary.  I take my husband for granted. 

All of this is weighing on my mind lately.  So heavily.  I feel for those struggling and fighting.  I miss my grandfather, and my heart aches in his absence.  I question why all of this is happening to such good people, and I can only turn to God hoping and trusting He has a greater plan.  Reminding myself that I can not see as much as him.   I can only see horizontally while He he sees from above--the greater picture.  In the midst of my attempts to trust in His infinite goodness, I remind myself not to lose sight of my blessings.  My health, my family, my children, and my husband.  God is so good to me. 

I pray for those aching.  Those who are struggling, fighting.  I pray for those living in silent fear.  Do not think I do not know you are hurting.  I do.  While I can't do much, I can pray.  And I continue to do so.  Constantly.  Intensely.  Faithfully.