Nightly Ritual

She knows it's time without it needing to be announced.

I do my best to prepare the syringe out of her line of sight, but she still knows what I'm doing. This is when the protest begins. Why she tries, I'm still unsure. Her pleas don't change anything.

"I don't want to do it tonight. Can't I go jump on the neighbours trampoline?" she begins bargaining with me.

"You're too high, that won't work, not with supper coming"

"But I don't want to eat, I'm not hungry!" She's angry.

"It doesn't matter, it's time to eat"

I'm tired of this argument. It's a nightly thing.

Since she is on the higher side, she's aggitated. Everyone in the room knows this is going to be a struggle. I'm wished luck, and the lucky flee.

"I don't want to!" she's screaming, kicking, shrieking.

"You have to keep your voice down! Yelling at me isn't going to change any of this"

She slides off the kitchen nook, and is in a human puddle on the kitchen floor. I lift her, all 50 pounds of the dead weight.

"This would have been easier if you were diagnosed when you were smaller" I groan as I struggle to shift her weight higher up on my torso. I carry her into the living room, sit her on my lap, the room is a ghost town. I know they're hiding somewhere. Somewhere else.

She grabs the syringe off the coffee table, thinking she's won the battle yet. I hate having to wrestle it from her. Somedays I just want to throw my hands up and declare "You do it then!". I'll have that day, in time. Many years from now perhaps.

I try to be patient with her. I tell her I know it sucks, but it is what it is. It's so black and white, it's disturbing. There's no negotiating. No bargaining. No wiggle room. It is what it is.

"I know Rowan, this really, really sucks. I'm sorry"

I pull her close, hold her tight, and try to get the injection over and done with quickly.

It still sucks. No doubt about that.