The Witching Hour
December 1, 2009
image courtesy of photobucket.com
The room is dark save for the pink Barbie Christmas tree on the nightstand that illumines one corner but leaves the other three in blackish confusion. I step carefully around the stuffed animal that’s been kicked from her bed and over the squeaky floorboard near the dresser, pausing to admire the newest piece of art thumb tacked to the wall—a turkey and a pig wishing each other a Merry Christmas.
I stoop over the bed and, as softly as I can, hunt beneath the blankets for a hand. Either of the two will do; it makes no difference right or left and is usually dependent upon how she’s sleeping. I pull out another stuffed animal and part of her Tinkerbell blanket (“Tink’s my favorite,” she says, “because fairies are real enough if you believe.”) until, finally, I unearth a palm.
Her fingers close in on my hand, gripping me as she did almost eight years ago when we first met. She was smaller then, though just as loud. And much more innocent. It would be four years until the claws of this world sunk into her.
I turn her hand palm side up and spread her fingers, holding them as close to the tinkling lights on the tree as I can. I draw my eyes close, squinting to find which of the five are the least scarred by the day’s jabs. Ten, to be exact.
It’s been a long day.
I pull her monitor from my pocket and slide a test strip into the slot, then pull back the white plastic tab of the pricker. The spring loads with a click. I set the business end onto the top of the whorl in her thumbprint and press.
It isn’t the ensuing click! that makes her jerk, it’s the feeling of the jagged piece of metal pressing through her skin, drawing blood. I hold her hand tighter, not only to keep her steady but to let her know everything’s fine. The end of the test strip soaks up a drop of blood, and I wipe the remainder off with a cotton ball.
The backlit screen on the monitor counts backward from three in a manner I suppose it’s meant to be soothing but is in fact its antithesis. I would rather have it over with—321—than with the gut wrenching, patronizing way its program dictates—3…2…1…
I let out a soft exhale that is part desperation and part fatigue. Midnight is known to some as The Witching Hour, that part of night when ghosts and demons supposedly prowl. Until three years ago, I never believed that. I believe it now. Except in our house it comes an hour early. Every night for the past four years.
I turn the monitor to face me, half praying and half willing for cooperation.
3…(it’s going)…2…(to be)….1…(okay)…
The screen blanks, adding to the drama, and then reveals her glucose count in its typical ta-da! manner.
68, it flashes. Printed on the bottom is Time for a snack?
I lay her hand down and she instinctively pulls it under the blankets and curls. I leave her there to thirty seconds of rest, then return with a glass of water and fifteen Skittles.
“Hey Punkin,” I whisper, “can you eat a snack for me?”
She huddles deeper into the bed and mumbles a “No, Daddy.”
“Please? I have Skittles.”
“Kay,” she says.
I help her up and hold my hand out. Greens and yellows and reds and oranges, mixing with the tree light.
She leans her head onto my shoulder and plucks the Skittles one by one from my hand, softly crunching down on them. Her blond hair settles between my lips and itches my nose, but I don’t move my head. The only motion is the gentle rocking back and forth that I give her, hoping to keep her closer to sleep than wakefulness. She’s not aware, but I am. I am aware of everything. Every bite, every crunch. The pock marks on her fingers and the knots in her arms and legs.
And I am aware of the ghosts and demons who visit our Witching Hour, those of doubt and grief who claw at me from the inside out.
I decide then, in that warm bed by that warm Christmas light, that if there is a hell upon this earth then it resides in this room, where there is so much joy but not enough to rid ourselves of the pain, and where there is love abounding but not enough to make my daughter well.
It is a hard fact, but a fact nonetheless. Sometimes in the darkness all we can do is huddle and rock.
This post was written for the blog carnival hosted by Peter Pollock. To read more stories about Grief, please visit him at Rediscovering the Church.
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34 Responses to “The Witching Hour”
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I hate diabetes. A cure sure would be nice. And no more pokes. Poor little fingers.
I don’t even have a clue what you’re going through, but you really do a great job at expressing it. It’s one of those things that you read about or hear from a friend and wish you could make it better. I’m truly sorry. Bless both of you, tons and more.
This was heart wrenching. Made me cry so I cannot imagine how you feel day in day out. But take comfort in knowing He is in charge. My love to your little girl.
As someone who battles diabetes, I totally understand. My heart hurts for your precious daughter, praying for her.
I praise God for the invention that allows screen to tell you it’s time for a snack…
what a wonderful thing.
I am sorry your little girl has to go through that, thankful that these days we are able to diagnose and treat it.
God bless you and your family.
You are a great dad. I am sorry she has so much pain to go through, and that you feel her pain as well.
Such a father’s tender love for his little girl … your words make it tangible.
I read words by a father who would take this on himself in a flash if he could. Like our Father did for us. It’s a true picture you draw here.
Billy – I’m so sorry you all have to endure this day in and day out! My prayers are with you and your precious daughter!
Blessings,
Jill
OK, so I always have admired you as such a loving Dad who delights and cherishes all the moments of your children. But this post just launched it up 100 times over. WOW!
I am still trying to get my emotions in check here……this blew me away. So for now, I will tell you that I believe in miraculous healings, Billy. And I will lift your precious little girl in prayer….and until that miracle happens (notice not “if”, it’s a “when” that I am declaring)……I know she couldn’t be in better Hands.
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This post was mentioned on Twitter by gyoung9751: The Witching Hour, post by @billycoffey. http://bit.ly/53UjZ9…
Well-written post! But I’m sorry its yours to write.
‘m so sorry that diabetes is part of you and your daughter’s life! Praying for a cure … NOW!
What a gentle, loving father you are, Billy. I hate it when you make me cry, though.I share your grief, and pray for a cure for that dreaded disease every day. I hate sticking my patients’ fingers.
My eyes are filled with tears. As I thought about what a wonderful father you are….I couldn’t help but think about the children suffering with this disease or other disease that do NOT have someone to hold them during the “witching hour.” I am drawn to pray for those children now.
andrea
Peace of Christ to you, dear friend. May you and your precious daughter both know with deepest certainty that He never ever wastes sorrows that are poured out like perfume at His feet. I don’t know exactly how it works, but I’m convinced that good gifts often wear unexpected disguises, and faith refined in the fire is worth more than physical comfort or ease. I wish it weren’t that way, but I also trust the beauty and wisdom and higher-ness of His ways.
I know God can heal her with a word. I pray He chooses to do that. Meanwhile, may your hearts remain tender, longing for redemption, crying, “Come, Lord Jesus.” Some day it will all make sense.
Love, Jeanne
This is beautiful. Your father-love is so evident here.
I am that little girl, but all grown-up now. Test strips, glucose tablets, and an insulin pump are part of me.
My diagnosing doctor said said to my very young ears, “Who is in control? Is the diabetes going to control you or are you going to control it?” That made a profound impact on how I have lived my life in the shadow of it’s grip. I didn’t know the Lord back then. My mamma didn’t either. I saw the burden & pain & fear in her eyes–so I took it in to lighten her already heavy load. What a blessing that you know the Lord and your daughter can see His strength in you. And it is a gift that she lives in the midst of your tender compassion.
Through my tears, I pray for you all.
Blessings.
You and Wendy have opened a new prayer window for me in your sweet little girls having to live with juvenile diabetes. And I’m sorry this disease came after your familes. I know you’d trade places with your munchkins in a heartbeat if you could. Oh that we could huh? This was a beautiful post…as always. Let your blond Tinkerbell know I’m praying for her.
Billy, four words: “this too will pass.” Somewhere in the book of Psalms it’s written: Weeping may remain for a night but rejoicing comes in the morning. Look outside the window, it won’t be long before the breaking dawn.
we huddle, we love, we wait.
you hold wonderful gifts, in your daughter and in your writing.
thank you for sharing them.
so much comes through that you can not know.
love to you and your family.
Another powerful story and a great testimony to God’s faithfulness and sustaining you and your family. I cannot imagine all that you and your little girl have gone through, but I pray for strength for you to meet all the challenges and get through to the other side.
A beautiful piece. It conveys so much. I’ll try to remember to pray for your daughter when my boys eat Skittles.
I have no idea how to respond.
I thank God that I do not have to deal with anything like that… and I have no idea how you cope.
Great post, Billy. I’m in tears. You have such a precious little girl there and I can tell you treat her like such a treasure. Bless you and yours.
Okay, this made me cry. The very atmosphere of the room set me up for what comes next . . . an unknown, yet something I knew was not going to be good.
What an emotional picture you gave us, Billy. Your precious baby girl in your arms as she nibbles on live-giving . . . Skittles!
Heartbreakingly poignant but beautifully sketched.
Beautifully written. And powerful especially for those of us who have experienced what it is like to “huddle and rock” in the dark.
I can’t imagine four years of these nightly visits. You are truly her knight in shining armor. Billy, God has bless you with great love and sweetness to combat the inferior weapons of doubt & grief. No weapon formed against you shall remain…
Thank you for sharing your grief. This was just beautiful, and brought tears.
Billy, God bless you, her and the rest of your family. My heart breaks and tears fall as I read this and realize what you all go through, daily. And, I know how much my brother worries about his precious granddaughter. Your daughter and a cure for diabetes is always a part of my prayers. Love and prayers for you and yours!
I only made it a few sentences in before I broke into tears. I never knew I could experience such intense pain, until one of my kids was hurt/sick. The wounds go deep and somehow I feel like I’ve let them down…
Great post, Billy. You are a wonderful daddy and your family is truly blessed!
Wow – oh wow. Great post, just great… As you see I’m at a loss for words.
It just stinks when we can’t take away our kids pain and sickness…whether physical or of the heart. And you know I’ll be praying for that little girl of yours.
The greater the pain the greater the love God has for you.I AM DIABETIC I went through a few challenges, but a child that breaks my heart. Love and blessings are with you and yuours.
So touching. Words aren’t adequate–but you conveyed your love and her trust. Thanks for being willing to share.