An Art Work A Day

Being a mum is hard when you get a call saying your son is admitted to hospital with breathing problems after being hit in the chest. No matter how old or how big or how grown he is, right then he seems very, very small to a tender mum's heart.

Waiting is hard, so very hard when you walk around, to and from, to and from while the seconds last like hours, waiting for more news.
Questions are many, very many when the information is limited and the possible results a mum can vision are way too many.

At last, another call. He is in for x-rays. the mum relaxes a bit. He is in proper care. They work on finding out. X-rays, that does not sound too scary.

Then JOY, he calls himself. He will be all right, no broken bones and he is able to breathe and talk. Then the mum can really think it will be ok and try to bring her shoulders down. But the anxiety still sits in her chest and shoulders and stomach. It will be hours, even maybe days before it is completely gone and her nights will be tormented for a while. Because he sounds so little and she wishes he was at home, with her, so that she could see him, and cuddle him, and pamper him, and make everything all right as she did when he was 5.

Finally, an sms saying he is ok, he will be sent home, to his home far away. And the mum turns to her computer and tries to write away some of the thoughts and anxieties. And share her joy.

It went well this time too.

Mum