Choosing My Words: What You Don't Know And Can't See And the Anonymous Note



More On The Anonymous Note..  As I mentioned in the HuffPost Live interview, and to all news sources that have since inquired,  I originally received the anonymous note on my car awhile ago, and at that time originally published the personal blog post that was republished this week by HP and continued to go viral. I believe the recent web interest here on my blog for this post, may have been a result of the news popularity of recent anonymous notes to parents of a disabled children, also being published. That said, readers seem to feel the content and conversation was still relevant. You can click the link above for the HP Post, HP Live video and the 7K+ comments. To further clarify my personal perspective I have written the post featured below. 


“ How did I get the line on my leg Mommy?” 

Zoe asked me about her scar last night, as I lay next to her, mostly murmuring that she should go to sleep.. while I tried especially hard not to nod off. Kids are funny at bedtime, vulnerable to the mysterious truth serum spell of near sleep, and Zoe is no different. This is a new place we have arrived at, the magic of bedtime, when affection is still abundant, but now her worries and fears are also at the forefront of thought.

I rolled over and took Zoe’s hand in mine, trying to focus on her face in the nightlight glow. She is eleven now and bedtime lately has taken a serious turn. We talk about kids who stare, what she is afraid of and how people are different. Tonight she has chosen to ask me for the first time ever, about the surgical scar on her thigh. My mind drifts, and I speak softly, saying one thing to her while thinking another. Buying time to choose my words carefully, and tell her this story. 

Every time I see that scar, I am thankful. Thankful we had the diagnostic muscle biopsy test. Thankful we finally got the answers were were looking for back then.  The funny thing is though, I haven’t really seen that scar for years.. When I look at Zoe, I don’t see her scars, the label of her diagnosis, her walker she uses at home  or her wheelchair she uses out in public. I see my daughter; her can-do attitude, her awesome sense of humor, her smile, her spirit. I see how far she has come and how hard we have worked to get here. 

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