My insides turn to rocks when I see them. One here, two there…appearing all over. Tiny ones, large ones. As small as the tip of a pen, as large as a quarter. On her legs, her arms, her tummy. Her back. Everywhere. I’ll notice them at bath time. And they suck my breath away. I see them in the morning, while dressing her. I know she doesn’t bump herself in all those places. I know they aren’t normal.
I see bruises on other children and have the same reaction. But they only have two. And they are a normal color. And my breath returns.
Only now, after fighting this battle for a year–this endless search for answers–am I finally getting doctors’ attention. The one who claimed a year ago they were “from the way she’s held” finally admitted last week that he’s deeply concerned. Suddenly admitted he’s changed his mind. Send her to another specialist, he said. These are not normal, he stressed.
As more bruises appear in more places, as more symptoms surface and current ones increase, I get more scared. That feeling in my gut, that voice whispering my deepest fear, surfaces. Grows constant. I can hardly drown it out lately.
What is wrong with my baby?
Now, we await more appointments with more specialists. More time ticks by as I stare, count, finger the bruises. As she points to them: “Bruises, Mommy. One, two, four-nine-ten.”
I still fight this fight. I still seek answers. My silent war rages on. I will not stop until these bruises subside or until someone is able to give me The Answer.