Lamb to the slaughter. No matter how much I reason with myself, this is the feeling that I have.
F is the lamb and getting her mickey button changed is the big sharp knife.
its been 4 months since the last change. That awful day when 2 adults, me included, pinned her down while a 3rd pulled out the old mickey and put in a new one.
4 months since she stopped talking to me for 2 days.
We’ve done a lot to help her since then. We needed to. Her fear and anxiety are so high that I can spook her just by walking into her room.
So she’s been learning self hypnosis: designing her own happy place that she can go to when needed. When she needs to be calm enough to have her mickey changed
And she’s loved working with her therapist loves doing the exercises. Even when we forget, she remembers and insists on doing them. What a star.
so she is prepared. We’ve done everything we can.
But on the way in to the hospital she says quietly
“I wish I was someone else”
So I know. For both us this journey is like going to the slaughter house.
I can hear the shouting from here.
its a good job I don’t eat cookies anymore; I’d be the size of a house.