After we got our son’s official diagnosis of having cystic fibrosis, I was angry. My tender and delicate three-week-old baby had been suddenly thrown into a lifetime of hospitals, treatments, and life-threatening possibilities. When I went onto Facebook to make the announcement of his diagnosis–because what kind of sleep-deprived, devastated parent wants to make that many phone calls?–I only felt worse. Seeing all of the status updates about the wonderful things happening in the lives of my friends and family was like rubbing the injustices of the world in my tear-filled eyes, and it burned. There were friends who announced their children’s healthy well-checkups. There were family members who were on vacation, relaxing on a beach with a drink in their hands, like they were never going to have a worry again. What really made me livid were some of the complaints.
“Traffic is terrible today!”
“Ugh, the house is a mess, but I don’t feel like cleaning. Anyone want to do it for me?”
“I’m so hungry! Is it lunchtime yet?”
“Some people are so frustrating! Can’t wait for this day to be over.”
In that moment, those complaints seemed so insignificant and petty. I wanted to scream, “Really? That’s what you’re complaining about?” While these people’s biggest worry of the day was whether or not they were going to have time to stop at Starbucks on the way to work, I had real problems. I had a baby with a life-expectancy of 38. I had to endure the blood tests, the long doctor’s visits, and sorting out the confusing details of a complicated disease. Real problems, people.
I was angry with the world.
But then I thought about it from my son’s perspective. Despite the disease that had manifested inside of him, he was still a beautiful and innocent newborn. He cried and nursed and pooped and slept just like any baby should. He was content with the world. The last thing I wanted was for him to feel angry. After all, it was his body that was affected by this disease. It was his life that was imposed upon, and no matter how much it affected me, it would always affect him more. I couldn’t let him grow up thinking that he had a reason to be angry. I didn’t want him to believe that anyone else had a better life than he did. Or was more normal. Or was luckier. Or was more blessed. Something in me shifted when I looked at my sweet baby boy and saw the kind of man he needed to be: healthy, strong, and determined. I let go of the anger as best as I could, so that I could see my son as the perfect, tiny being that he was. I was grateful for him, and my Facebook status probably would have read, “I am such a blessed mama.”
Six months later, what do I complain about? I complain about the half hour wait at the doctor’s office. The never-ending piles of laundry and dishes. The grocery store being out of Cherry Pepsi. And somewhere out there, someone may overhear my complaints who is tackling something big. Something real. Something difficult. They may feel angry at my complaints. Just give them some time and perspective, and their complaints will be as good as mine.
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