I
just finished another application for a grant to help with the expenses of
kiddo’s therapies. Since the deadline is
tomorrow, and we’ve all had the crud for the past week or so, it took me until
this afternoon to complete the paperwork. Of course, I still have to deliver it tomorrow
afternoon on my way home from teaching, but that just means I’ll know it
arrived safely at the intended destination.
So, while I’m breathing a sigh of relief now that it’s finished (minus
the delivery part), I’m also feeling pretty vulnerable.
For
years, I’ve dreamed of being a successful writer, penning the ultimate
must-have read that’s too engaging to put down.
Instead, I’ve found myself writing narratives about my experiences as a
parent of a micro-preemie and the territory we have to navigate to get help
with his special needs. It’s personal…really
personal. And, just like the
questions on the application, that’s what makes it so scary.
One
of the questions I answered had to do with kiddo’s history and why he’s a good
candidate for the scholarship; another required me to track the therapies he
currently receives, and indicate how they are paid for; and yet another had to
do with the financial circumstances his health challenges have brought to us and
why we’re requesting the assistance in the first place.
Each
of these is difficult enough to answer individually, requiring a balance of
medical terminology, historical documentation and emotional content; the
combination makes for a rather daunting task because I have to go there…back
through the details and memories and emotions all tied to the history of our
tiny miracle and how his early arrival has shaped our experience. Most of it hasn’t been pretty, so dredging
through it on a regular basis has become quite the emotional exercise.
And,
just like this spring, when I applied for this scholarship for the first time,
I’m left with an almost-sick-to-my-stomach feeling after sealing the
envelope containing the paperwork. I just poured out my heart on
paper (tempered with factual information, of course), for a bunch of strangers
who will decide if our situation meets the guidelines for the scholarship. This is hardly the type of writing I
envisioned when I dreamed of being an author.
There
are so many questions running around in my head right now: Did I provide enough information without
being verbose? Is the balance of
information good? Should I have shared
more about how tough these past seven years have been, or would that make us sound
desperate? Hell – we feel desperate, so
is it okay to say so? How many other
families in need are also submitting for this round of scholarships? Do we even have a chance at getting this
scholarship since we received one six months ago?
For
a while, these questions will remain unanswered. I’ll find out in a month or so whether we’ve
made it through the preliminary screening; if so, there will be more
information to provide and more writing to do.
At least I have the benefit of having been through this once before, so
I know what to expect in terms of the paperwork. But that still doesn’t take the edge off the
emotional component.
So,
for now, I’m going to put the tea kettle on and sit quietly for a bit before
bed. I’m giving myself permission to let
the tears roll as I let go of the emotional piece that is always a part of
writing for these applications. I know
I’ll feel better in a little while, and be able to call my efforts
complete. And, no matter the outcome, I
know the energy and effort was worth it because it has to do with our precious
kiddo. I’m just trying to help us find
our Happily Ever After…
No comments:
Post a Comment