There comes a time, for each one of us, when we have enough.
That time may slip by like silent petals released from a flower. Unnoticed. Quietly, in muted glory our enough time, faded away before we could hold it.
But it was there.
For some, it comes a little louder. And it follows us like a dream. At the doctor’s today with my son, his annual check-up for his marks and moles — I had enough. I knew no place existed on the planet more perfect than that small exam room where I waited with my son. His legs crinkling the white paper runner on the table and my daughter scrubbing her boots along the linoleum.
We’d left a waiting room full of angry patients. Scowls under scarves and coughs I’ve heard all winter. A television blaring death and fire and brimstone on the news above our heads. Every eye in the room glued to it or to the floor.
And I thought of that waiting room like a distant day, something far off — the outside world — as my little girl spun on the doctor’s stool and my son sprawled out on the table and everything perfect and holy to me sat right there in front of me. Enveloped me. Held me.
The luckiest woman in the room.
The tiny exam room. Waiting to hear what we prayed would be good news. He’s had three surgeries, my little guy. Three scares. And he’s come out blazing like the sun after each one. Like the greatest gift. A gift I released each time as he was shot through with general anesthesia and I was shoved out of the operating room. A gift I clung to through the walls through the hours until I held him again.
And today, seeing him a little taller, a little more “grown-up” now at six years old, his hair tousled and due for a cut, his eyes bright and full of love and innocence I had enough. I knew it. Felt it. Heard it, in my daughter’s voice as she bounced on the scratchy pull-out step at the bottom of the exam table.
The doctor came in, smooth and smiling and as she checked my son the florescent light glinted off her jeweler’s loupe and we heard good news. And the exam room shrank and held just the doctor, my children and me, and I had enough.
No winter sun today. We left the doctor’s office crunching through frozen slush in the crowded parking lot under a haze of storm clouds. My children’s hands in mine and my heart full and the land around me hours away from another snow. No sun today, but it shined on me just the same. I seized my enough, and carried it home, with my kids safely buckled, sitting right behind me in the car, and I felt so thankful to be the luckiest woman in the room. To have my enough.