Fear. Uncertainty. Doubt.

It is with a heavy heart that I undertake to write this. I have been telling people for the last several days--bluntly--perhaps so that they are as afraid as I am. I try to convince myself of the facts.

This is not so bad.

It could be so much worse.

We can cope with this.

We can fight it tooth and nail.

Beneath my bravest face lies an untamed maelstrom of terror, in depth and breadth like an angry sea. I'm not brave. I'm wrapped in cotton wool. Shocked. Alone. When reality pounds away the protective coating... what will I do then? I'm frightened my friends. Those black waters are wide and deep and I am so small.

What throws me onto this dark shore--me--who eats editors and newbie writers for lunch? A nightmare. I can't wake up. Every morning, it hits me again, rolling over me like a tsunami. I can't wake up. I can't even drown. I move through the motions of life... working, telling people, giving a birthday party for my middlest.

On Thursday, my precious baby tested positive for muscular dystrophy. It's not the worst kind, which would doom her to an early death. It's some other kind... maybe even a virus which will get completely better. The numbers are not so bad. But her decline has been heartbreaking, inching slowly for her, but quick for me, who now knows that I saw the signs and didn't know what they meant.

She is 3.

She struggles up the stairs, hanging by both hands from the rickety banister. Or she goes up on her bum, or on all fours... like a baby half her age. From a seated position on the floor, she climbs to her feet, pushing with her hands, walking them toward her body until she can lift her torso, and come wobbling to her feet. If you so much as brush by her, she falls. If you make her walk too far, she crumples to her knees, bonelessly, loose-limbed. If she tries to step up from the street onto a curb without a helping hand, she dissolves into a puddle her arms reaching toward me to pick her up. She's so heavy now... too heavy because I am weak. And I want to scream and scream, keening for my bright, beautiful "big girl." She becomes a baby by inches while I watch.

It seems like it's only been a couple months... but I realize writing this, that is not true. Her balance has been bad for half a year at least. She has been fatigued and grouchy for months. That was never like her. I thought she was just "being 2" very late, finally coming into it when she was nearly 3. She had always been such a delight, too good to be true. She was entitled to some twoness, wasn't she?

Now she says, "Mommy! I climbed the stairs all by myself!" Like she did when she learned to poop in the potty. Like it's an achievement. I can't watch her struggling up those stairs, because reaching the top is an achievement. I can't watch. I have to hold myself from leaping after her, catching her off-balanced little body, carrying her up. She is so heavy.

At the playland, a little girl knocked her over. I flew to her, seeing myself as over-protective for the first time ever. The children were running races, back and forth past her. It took every ounce of my will to let them run. No. Stop! You might hurt her! Come to Mommy. Don't run. Don't waddle. Don't make me see what is happening to you. And I wanted to cry right there in McDonalds.

I didn't.

I can't.

I am afraid for the future, my friends. I am afraid of what will happen when I am able to feel again. She still seems so healthy... but I can't watch her climb the stairs, or not run, or stand up from the floor. I'm in agony. I try to stay calm, keep my mind on the facts, but beneath what I know is what I feel...

There but for the grace of God go I.