A poem about the night that my daughter was diagnosed with Type 1, back in 2013 when she was 2 and a half.
I held you to me on the bed and smelt your hair, felt your lightness,
as your father bustled in the darkness for your favourite things.
We had been to the doctors that afternoon and he rang as we were driving home
to the clear light, where the town stopped and the hills began.
I saw the phone number flash up on the screen and thought ‘Shit it’s serious’.
Something far down in me had sensed that it wasn’t going to go away,
but I wasn’t prepared to listen to that, wasn’t ready to have you here like this,
breathing against me like a baby bird.
Your father had brought you home from the hospital.
It was late at night and he had to take you back again.
His face was white, and he wasn’t thinking straight.
and I held you on the bed thinking this is the last time;
the last time that you are mine,
that you do not have diabetes,
that everything is ok.
I kissed you goodbye and sent you off
to that white unforgiving hospital
while I stayed home for the baby,
but I remember holding you on that bed.
The drum of my heart was loud,
and I was so small in your arms
and all I had left was this helplessness.
by Elisabeth Pike
You can find this poem in There You Are, a collection of 34 hand lettered and illustrated poems about motherhood. It is available from my Etsy shop here.
elisabeth pike 