“Would you do it again?” What kind of a question is that? She’s my daughter! What do you mean, “Would I do it again?”
If you rushed into a burning building to rescue some of your children, and one of them was horrifically damaged before you got to her, you would still drag her out. You would do it even if you got hurt, yourself. You would do it even if she cried to be left behind because her pain was too great. As a parent, you would drag her out, against her will, kicking and screaming.
Then you would get her help. It would be the best help money could buy. You would spare nothing to help her mentally, emotionally and physically.
What if the physical damage was so great that it left her confined to a wheel chair? What if she hated you for saving her rather than letting her die? What if she spit on you and told you to never come back?
Oh, you would be angry. You’d probably lash out in hurt and anger at your child’s refusal to appreciate the sacrifice that left your own body scarred, and you, changed forever inside. You would even pretend to question your judgment on the day of the fire. Yes, you would pretend to question.
What if she told lies about you to drive you away? What if she hurt other family members in an attempt to finally secure your rejection? What if she betrayed the family in an effort to destroy what she couldn’t make go away?
Of course you would give her some space. You would need to focus on the protection of other loved ones, help them to heal and give them comfort and strength. You would try to tell yourself that you were right to continue to stay away. Yes, you would try.
But you would go back. Cautiously but lovingly, you would go back. As many times as it took, you would go back. As often as she hurt you, after a time, after licking your wounds and splinting your bones, you’d go back.
You would go back to your child because you would understand that her physical injuries and the fear from the horrible night of the fire caused other damage inside; damage that couldn’t be seen. You would know that it wasn’t your child’s fault. And even though she blamed you for a horrible life, you would know that the damage was not caused by any fault of your own, either. You would go back. You’d go back because you are a parent, and that’s what parents do. Eventually, as you continued your vigil, things would get better. They might not ever be perfect. They might not ever be good. But things would get better.
So, now we know what you would do. How can you ask me what I would do? Would I go back to a foreign country and look for her? Would I thank social workers for their recommendations to forget her, while insisting that they help me to go against their advice? Would I bring her into our home and family, knowing the pain that would accompany her? Would I drag her out of a metaphorical burning building? Would I pay for any treatment that she needed? Would I go back and do it all over again? Would I go back?
Of course I would go back and do it all over again. I would go back because she is my daughter. I will keep going back as many times as it takes because I’m her dad. But before I went back to the beginning, to do it all over, again, I would first need a few minutes, to sit on the ground and cry. I’d turn up the volume on an old Bob Seger song called Against the Wind. Then I’d listen intently to his words: I wish I didn’t know now what I didn’t know then.
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