Saturday, May 28, 2011


The disappointment falls unexpectedly with a thud, and rests heavily in my heart. "What?" I answer to the receptionist on the other end of the phone.

"I said we need your half of the payment before the orthotics will be be made."

"I was under the impression that the orthotics had already started being made. We thought they'd be done at the beginning of next week."

"No, we need your payment first. They will be ready two weeks after we receive it. I have a note here that we left you a message."

"I never received any message..." I reply slowly, thinking, The note was for you to call me and leave me a message. The ability for my daughter to walk rests in your company's hands, and your misunderstanding of a note just cost us another month. I do not like you.

I give her my credit card information and end the call, feeling the disappointment spread its black wings from my heart until it has devoured all of me. I am upset. It's so easy to blame the receptionist, You didn't call us. You were supposed to call us. But a nagging thought reminds me that I am just as guilty of neglecting to move the orthotics forward, "Here is my card," the doctor had said, "My assistant should call you within two days to work out payment, but call this number if she doesn't get a hold of you." I stare at the card stapled to the inside of the file folder and point the finger squarely at myself, I was supposed to call her. Why did I forget to call her?

Since Wednesday, May 18th, when we took Rosemary to an orthopedic doctor to ask why she walks on her ankles when she pushes her alligator push toy, I have been keeping this file full of business cards, x-rays, doctor visits, and consent forms: yes, we have insurance, yes, we will pay what insurance doesn't cover, yes, our daughter will walk. Cavus and weak leg muscles be damned, Rosemary will walk on her own two feet; we just need the help of physical therapy and ankle braces to get her there.

I'm sorry, Rosemary, for not getting your braces sooner. You are one day shy of being 14 months old, and too tall to still only be crawling. I know that you want to walk. You pull up on chairs and push them across the room. Anything that can be pushed, you push it until it hits a wall. I can't wait for you to break your hands free of supportive objects and see you take your first steps unassisted, save for the sturdy orthotics in your shoes that keep your ankles squarely above your feet. Oma reminded me that you don't know you don't have the orthotics yet, don't know that you even need them, but since Daddy and I have discovered that you do need them, they can't come fast enough. And I cost you another two weeks.

It feels like forever.

I'm sorry.



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