Think of the Children

At the time William the Bump decided it was time to make his presence known, our daughter was four. Why William became termed "The Bump" is something we'll get to later.

Now, our daughter is four. Four and a half if you ask her. The half, those six additional months, of course are very important. 

Reaching that milestone came just days before William the Bump came to our doorstep. That half felt so fresh. But I’d venture a guess that four and a half years are not nearly enough to process your father falling to the ground in the grips of a seizure, even with that “half” in the mix. Certainly it is not enough to process that there is something in his head that caused him to have a seizure, and will be something with which we will have to reckon for some time. 

I don’t think having ten times the number of years she does would help any more, honestly. It’s a mack truck to the chest and little if anything can prepare one for that.

So what of all the children caught in the midst of an unexpected, life-altering diagnosis affecting one or more family members?

Thank goodness for my friend from medical school, who may as well be my sister. She is a child psychiatrist and when she heard the news, she drove down to spend time with us. I had given my daughter whatever words I could to help her understand what happened. 

“Baba was not feeling well, that’s why he fell down and started shaking. Amma called 911 so that he could be taken to the hospital and get taken care of.”

She helped her find the rest of the narrative for what would come next: the hospital stay and the planned surgery.

Hence, the Bump. The Bump is what they christened the mass. 

So now, she has her narrative, and offers it to anyone who cares to listen.

“My Baba fell by the pool and started shaking. Amma called 911 and he was taken to the hospital. They took the bump out by cutting into his brain using neurosurgery.”

That last bit at the end, throwing in "neurosurgery" for good measure, that’s her being her. 

But we need words to capture the slight slur in his speech when he is tired, the fuse that runs shorter than it used to, the way his steps are not as long or as confident (but still strong). What name can a child use to describe the serpentine craniotomy scar on his head? The swelling which pooled in his full cheeks, making them more distended, distorting the face she would clasp as a baby?

How do we shepherd the little ones down a path no one wants to travel, and one we barely understand ourselves with all of our additional years?