If Band-Aid could make one for the heart, then we'd all be good.

Dear Bitchy,

I used to be able to fix things.

Remember?

I was always fixing the Barbie pots and pans; the Barbie house; your motorized Barbie Jeep; your electronic diary that would never open; Polly Pockets and some of the other bazillion girl toys that have been shuffled back and forth between cousins. (The boy toys? Broken. Every. Single. One.) I fixed them all.

I have also always prided myself on being great in a crisis. Remember when the risers collapsed during my first kindergarten performance eight years ago? I was the first one there lifting them off people while everyone else was screaming. Thankfully, no one was hurt, but I’m still reminded about that now and then in the teacher’s lounge.

And when Sassy jumped off her bunk bed and ripped her knee WIDE open? I’m the one that held it together while driving her to the ER. Tightwad's face was white and he opted to stay home with Golden Boy. I wasn’t even fazed when my own finger was smashed to bits during an impulsive “moving of the furniture” in our brand new school. I calmly held my finger together and convinced the hysterical teacher next door that I would be fine if she could just perhaps drive me to the ER.

And when you fell headfirst off your bike at the bottom of the bike path in our back yard? I ran to you barefooted (Yes, my knees were still working then) and carried you over my shoulder to the car and drove you to the ER in record time. RECORD time.

But this time is different.

This time, this pain and this hurt is something I can’t fix.

I had a feeling in my heart something wasn’t right. College had been out for you and your high school love and I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him for several weeks. It was unusual. And now I know why.

Watching you as your heart breaks, is a horrible and helpless feeling. I know in my heart that there are no words I can offer that will ease this pain. And so, I haven’t tried.

I watch you closely, though, I talk when I can and offer little things that I think might help a bit. (Frankly, I’ve always found a pedicure is a great pain reducer.) I am thankful that your friends have risen to the occasion, and offer lovely distractions to try to help you through this time.

And so, I have no advice, no brilliant answers and no blame to place, but only this thought.

Often in life, horrible heartache will walk hand in hand with dizzying elation. I hope that in the days and weeks to come, your guardian angel swoops down, and lifts your face to the sun.

I’ll be praying for that.

(In the meantime, I made another nail appointment. Surely that will help. RIGHT?)