Today I learnt to access a port.

It’s a good skill for a nurse  to have, apparently.

That’s fine,

except it was Ivy’s port that I learnt to stick a needle into

and it seems so

wrong.

Today I stuck a needle into my girl

and I cried big fat baby tears because I was doing something I really didn’t want to.

I didn’t ever want to have to hurt Ivy in that way.

I have always been her safe person,

her comforter,

her protector.

I didn’t want to look into her tear filled eyes and tell her it would only sting for a minute -

not that way, not while I was bringing that hateful gripper needle towards her,

hands shaking,

adrenaline pumping,

hot, hyperventilating breaths of fear.

Silent prayers of making the mark first go.

I didn’t want that for us.

I couldn’t stroke her hand because I had sterile gloves on

I couldn’t scoop her sweet curls behind her ear or kiss her little nose.

She looked at me with those big blue eyes and said;

“You’re the needler now”

and I knew things would be different between us.

Today

I stuck a needle into my daughter under the guise that it would be better for everyone.

Everyone except Ivy.

Everyone except me.

I did it because

it will ‘make things easier’.

I did it because

I felt like I should.

I did it because I know there are mothers out there who do this every single day to their babies,

for diabetes,

cancer,

metabolic disorders.

I did it because I thought I should suck it up and be brave too

just like Ivy.

Common sense tells me it will be fine, that I am capable of doing this procedure on another person.

I used to do all that and more to strangers.

Mother sense screams No!

This is not right, it shouldn’t be this way.

A mother should not have to stick a needle into her child’s chest.

Today when Ivy took my hand and said;

“Don’t worry, I still love you”

a piece of me died

and I don’t think it’s ever coming back.

Today

I’m no longer just the Mummy.