Et tu, my son?

As any parent busting a gut for a child with profound disabilities knows, there is no shortage of critics.

At some point or another,  whether by social workers,  paramedical therapists, doctors, friends or relatives or all of the above, we will be chastised. Our crime? Expending excessive time, energy, love and government resources on citizens who who will never meaningfully progress.

Receiving that message is never pleasant. Even when uttered with a smile or a caress as if intended for our own benefit. As in "You are exhausting yourself. I am saying this for your own benefit."

But when the message emanates from your own child - as it did for me last night - and is then wholeheartedly dittoed by another one of your children, it is exponentially more traumatic. It's another realm of pain.

Twelve hours later, I still haven't scraped my psyche off the floor. And that's after my hour's swim this morning, which usually propels me to near-euphoria. I'm so devastated I'm considering splurging on the most decadent chocolate bar in the supermarket - blow the money and calories.

I suppose children presume that parents come equipped with elephant's hides. Mine is actually paper-thin.

Here (above) is a sketch of C. in her wheelchair - did it pre-psyche-assault, of course.