By Lorry Myers
It has been many years since we played the game. The last time, my oldest daughter was 8 years old, her hair in soft waves. Back then, Hilary had been diagnosed with a rare childhood illness that hospitalized her for months and changed the course of our lives. Those long dark days were filled with tears and prayers and lots of medicine. My middle child battled through it and grew to be a strong, healthy woman who approaches life like it is a gift
Now, here we were again.
The damp floor of a garage found my daughter in three-inch-high heeled shoes and the combination took her down…hard. The x-rays proved what Hilary knew the minute she hit the ground. She not only broke her leg in multiple ways but shattered her ankle too. Hilary’s pain was our pain as we waited for the surgery that would put her leg back together.
Beneath the hospital blanket Hilary looked so fragile; her badly shattered leg propped on pillows raised higher than her heart. She would doze with each push of her pain pump and I would soothe her hair wishing I could do more.
Watching Hilary’s drug induced sleep I remembered another hospital room with a little girl pale and hooked to tubes. Back then I would lower the side of the bed, climb in beside Hilary and hold on tight. I would promise her milkshakes and baby dolls and made-up stories to take us both away from the fears that crowded the hospital room.
That little girl isn’t little anymore.
As I stood over my grown daughter in another hospital bed all those old memories came rushing back and for a moment, she was that little girl again. It was then that I remembered the game.
For the complete column, see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard.
