Schedule a follow-up appointment with the pediatric neurologist.
For two weeks, our world shrank to symptoms, rest, and tranquility.
James took care of the meals and the phone calls.
I took charge of the medical record because writing down the details gave my panic an outlet.
In the quiet hours, when Lily slept on the sofa with her stuffed rabbit under her arm, I allowed myself to feel how close we had been to something irreparable.
Physical healing occurred faster than emotional healing.
They took away my stitches.
The dizziness disappeared.
The bruise Lily had below her hairline turned yellow and disappeared.
But bedtime changed.
Loud, sudden voices made her run towards me.
For weeks, he would ask before touching anything, even objects in our own kitchen that had always belonged to his world.
Once she held up a juice box and whispered that she had asked first.
That almost broke me.
We found a child therapist specializing in trauma, and Lily began to learn the language of safety through pictures, toys, and simple phrases.
I learned too.
I learned that trauma in young children can hide in everyday moments.
A red soda can in a supermarket trolley.
A belt hanging from a hook in the closet.
An elderly man laughing too loudly in a restaurant.
