I wanted to take her to a doctor that afternoon.
That was my first thought.
Then I started thinking about work, appointments, insurance, and all the other things I usually considered before making a decision.
I hated that I did that.
My daughter was sitting across from me, admitting that she had been hurting for months.
And some part of my mind was still calculating how much trouble the next step would cause.
I pushed those thoughts aside.
"Does it hurt right now?"
She nodded.
"How bad?"
She hesitated.
"Sometimes it's not that bad."
"And the other times?"
She looked down.
"Bad enough."
I asked her to show me where she felt the pain.
She placed one hand against her abdomen.
I didn't try to guess what it meant.
I wasn't a doctor, and I didn't want to frighten her with possibilities.
I told her we would get it checked.
She immediately looked worried.
"What will Dad say?"
The question landed harder than I expected.
"We'll talk to him."
Her fingers tightened around mine.
"Please don't tell him yet."
I looked at her.
"Why?"
She shook her head.
"I just don't want him to get mad."
I wanted to tell her that he wouldn't.
I wanted to promise that everything would be fine.
But I had seen his reactions when he thought someone was making a problem bigger than it needed to be.
I knew she had reasons for being afraid of his response.
So I didn't make a promise I couldn't keep.
"Your health comes first," I told her.
She watched me as if she wasn't sure whether she was allowed to believe that.
I called the medical office and explained that my daughter had been experiencing recurring abdominal pain.
They asked several questions.
I answered the ones I could.
When they asked how long it had been happening, I had to stop and think.
Weeks.
Possibly months.
I felt ashamed that I couldn't give them a clear answer.
I had lived in the same house as my child.
I had watched her every morning.
Yet I didn't know when her pain had changed from an occasional complaint into something she was afraid to mention.
The office couldn't give us an immediate appointment that afternoon.
They advised me to seek urgent medical assessment if her symptoms were severe or worsening.
I thanked them and hung up.
My daughter was watching me.
"What did they say?"
"We're going to get you checked as soon as possible."
She nodded.
I wanted to ask why she had waited so long to tell me.
I wanted to know every conversation she had ever had with her father about the pain.
But she looked exhausted.
I realized that if I asked all my questions at once, I might make her feel as though she had done something wrong.
So I started with something simple.
"Have you been taking anything for it?"
"Sometimes."
"What?"
She named an ordinary pain reliever.
I asked how often she had taken it.
She wasn't sure.
I told her not to take more than the recommended amount and that we would discuss the medication with a clinician.
Then I asked whether the pain had been getting worse.
She looked at the table.
"Sometimes I can't sleep."
I closed my eyes for a moment.
I had heard her moving around at night.
I had assumed she was staying up too late on her phone.
Once, I had even told her that she would be tired at school if she didn't put the phone away.
She hadn't argued.
She had simply gone quiet.
"Why didn't you wake me?"
She looked embarrassed.
"Because you work early."
That answer hurt.
I had spent so much time trying to make sure we had enough money that I had allowed my daughter to believe my sleep mattered more than her pain.
I pulled my chair closer.
"If you're hurting, you wake me. Any time."
She nodded, but I could tell she wasn't convinced.
That evening, my husband came home and asked why dinner wasn't ready.
I told him I had been talking with our daughter about her health.
He set his keys on the counter.
"What happened now?"
The words were ordinary.
His tone wasn't.
I explained that the pain had continued and that I intended to arrange a medical appointment.
He sighed.
"She's been complaining about this for weeks."
"That's why I want her checked."
"She needs to stop worrying about every little sensation."
I stared at him.
"She's telling us that she's in pain."
"And I've told her to rest."
"Rest hasn't fixed it."
He opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of water.
"You're both making this bigger than it needs to be."
I could feel the familiar urge to stop the conversation before it became an argument.
For years, I had measured difficult conversations by how quickly we could return to normal.
I would explain my position.
He would dismiss it.
I would become frustrated.
Eventually, one of us would change the subject.
Then we would eat dinner, watch television, and behave as though the disagreement had been resolved.
It hadn't.
We had only stopped talking about it.
"She's been eating less," I said.
"Teenagers do that."
"She's using a heating pad almost every night."
"Then let her use it."
I felt my patience slipping.
"What if something is wrong?"
He looked at me as though I had asked an unreasonable question.
"Then a doctor will tell us."
I stared at him.
"Exactly."
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he picked up his phone and walked into the living room.
The discussion was over because he had decided it was over.
I stood in the kitchen, holding the dish towel I had been folding.
I could have followed him.
I could have insisted that we make the appointment together.
Instead, I turned back to the sink.
I was angry with him.
I was also angry with myself for still wanting his agreement before I acted.
Later that night, I checked on our daughter.
Her bedroom door was partly open.
The heating pad lay beside her on the mattress, its cord twisted around the corner of a blanket.
She was awake.
"Can I come in?"
She nodded.
I sat on the edge of her bed.
"Tomorrow, I'm going to make sure we get you seen."
She looked frightened again.
"Does Dad know?"
"I told him you need a doctor."
"That's not what I asked."
I had no answer that would make the situation easier.
"No," I admitted. "He doesn't know exactly what we're planning yet."
She turned toward the wall.
I waited.
After a while, she spoke.
"He gets angry when I say it hurts."
I took a breath.
"Has he ever stopped you from getting medical help?"
She didn't answer immediately.
Then she said something that made me sit up straighter.
"He took me somewhere once."
I felt the room change around us.
"What do you mean?"
She pulled the blanket closer.
"I went with Dad."
"When?"
"A few weeks ago."
I stared at her.
"What kind of place?"
"A doctor's office."
I tried to keep my voice calm.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
She rubbed her sleeve between her fingers.
"He said it wasn't important."
I asked what the doctor had said.
She shook her head.
"They checked me. Dad said everything was okay."
"Did they give him any instructions?"
"I don't know."
She looked so uncertain that I stopped asking questions.
I told her we would get the medical records if we needed them.
Then I kissed her forehead and switched off the brighter bedside lamp.
I remained beside her for a few minutes.
She eventually closed her eyes.
I went downstairs and sat at the kitchen table.
My husband was watching television.
I could have asked him about the appointment right then.
Instead, I watched him laugh at something on the screen.
He looked completely relaxed.
I thought about our daughter upstairs, holding a heating pad against her body and worrying about whether her father would become angry if she admitted that she was still hurting.
I couldn't make those two pictures fit together.
I didn't sleep well that night.
Every time I woke, I wondered what had happened during the appointment he had never mentioned.
By morning, I had made my decision.
I would take our daughter to the hospital for an assessment.
I would not wait for my husband to decide whether her pain deserved attention.
And if there was something we needed to know, I wanted to hear it directly from the people treating her.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: I Signed My Daughter Out of School and Took Her Somewhere She Could Finally Tell the Truth Without Watching Her Father’s Face
My Daughter Had Learned to Hide Her Pain, and I Was About to Discover How Much Her Silence Had Cost Her
Part 2 of 20
