Our bodies house all we are. Our DNA, our organs, our soul, our will … are all encased within our physicality. In our bodies are all our good and all our bad. We have no control over genetic endowment. Whether we win or lose the genetic lottery, we are made entirely as we should be. A rare, progressive disease is the body Red was made with. She was made in part by me, the genetic contributor of her mutation. The source. The cause. And I, a complete freak of genetic whim, a spontaneous recodifyication of DNA so rare, it scratches heads and shrugs the broadest of shoulders, brewed the disease she was born with.
I have no shame in making Red the only way my DNA knew how to. No regret. No self hate or blame. How boring, how simple a notion, to hate myself for something I had no doing in.
But forgiveness, she’s the tricky bitch.
To forgive the body that sickens a bit more each day, who happens to frame the spirit of my lass, well that conversation took time.
The conversation evolves:
- pleading and praying –“please don’t wither, please stay strong so she can play and grow.”
- threats — “keep steady, don’t fail her during preschool years, give her some normalcy god damn you”
- negotiation — “if you maintain strength through elementary years, I can leave work to care for her full time”
- befriending — “thank you for getting her through the invasive tests, the pain filled nights; you are made of strong stuff”
- forgiveness — “your mechanical failings are part of her and part of me; you house all that she is and are with her when I am not.”
For as long as Red’s body is able to house her with this disease, I am grateful. For ever long; for ever lasting, it is what we have. If we are blessed enough with new parts to rebuild her faulty innards, then we will all be transformed and forgiven in the purest of ways, of our own making.
I forgive what is within
because I’m in this house
I’m in this home
all my time