Leper
I played the part of a leper today. My daughter, Delaney, is quite ill. Her illness is not hidden from the world. She coughs. She cries. She wheezes. She sneezes. She has the classic kid snot-face with swollen eyes and a smoker’s cough. She sick. And today we were shunned like lepers. In the doctor’s office parents chose to stand in a corner rather than sit within 20 feet of us. Those who were seated nearby got up and moved across the room. While picking up her scrip from the pharmacy the associate looked at us with pity and despair. Now, I don’t blame people for their reaction, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt to see my daughter avoided and shunned. Being a leper hurts. In the doctor’s office as each person moved away from her, I made sure I moved closer to her. With each look of pity, I countered with a touch or a kiss on her cheek. To the world she might seem like a leper, but to her father she was still as perfect as she was on the day she was born.