I put her old ugly pink helmet on yesterday afternoon and let Sophie walk around my room while I tidied it up. Despite her ability to walk and her love for doing so, she has next to no individual freedom to do it, to do what she most loves. Between possible seizures and the lack of cognitive ability to recognize danger or navigate, she just isn't safe except in her own tiny room that is padded or on a vast, softer surface like the beach or a grassy field.
This is one of those things that I absolutely do not, have not and cannot get used to and that needles me and that hurts my heart. Literally. I know that the more we push away our uncomfortable feelings, the stronger they are, and perhaps this is why after nineteen years I am no closer to accepting the fact that we can't let Sophie roam around where and when she desires. I push it away, I push it away and it sits there, hard and sore to the touch, perhaps emblematic of all the grief I carry. I am resigned to the fact that I will probably always have to pay someone to take her out for a walk. That's the stone, rounded at the corners, but still hard.