Our Little Miracle

We loved you long before we ever knew you.  From those early wishes and hopes for what your untold future would be, to the first beats of your heart and kicks of your feet.  We made plans for you, aspiring deeply to paint a picture hand-over-hand of the future you would have, one as beautiful as the love we felt for you.

We read to you every night as you nestled deep inside my womb, uncertain if you could even hear us, but believing that you could.  As we lifted the words off the page we let them be your story, written by another, but told by our hearts.  We allowed ourselves to think you owned them as if they were meant for you.

We engraved those words upon your baby blanket, so that when you made your entrance into this world we could wrap you in their warmth and familiarity.   We folded you tightly like a package, the visible corner underneath your Heaven-made face read;

           "Gaze at the stars,

             and watch the moon rise.

            Each day there are miracles,

            in front of our eyes.

            Dance to the music,

            and sing like the birds.

            Let stories and books,

            bring the magic of words.

            Enjoy friendship and laughter,

           your whole life through,

            and the love that we feel,

            as we welcome you.

        (My Little Miracle J. Beck and J, Croydon)

          We love you so much!
          Love,
          Mommy and Daddy"

We watched you grow and it was ever clear you marched to the beat of your own drummer.  You did things your own way, in your own time, and within your own expectations.  There was never a dull moment within your presence, lighting up each room you entered like the Fourth of July, all eyes on you, every one else taking a back seat.  There were days we feared you would fly so high you would never come back down.

We worried when they said that the you that was so special and yet so hard to "read" had autism. What would that mean for all the things we wished for you? Would all of our dreams for you now be just out of reach enough to make us ache?

We watch you grow now with this invisible label you wear upon your sleeve, always shedding your layers to reveal what is underneath, the raw, take-all-or-take-nothing you.  You are this amazing force inside a pint sized body, a constant tangle of knots we are trying to undo.  You refuse to be unwound.
 
We have overflowed with joy as you have checked off each of the dreams we had for you one by one without even knowing it.  You just love looking at the stars.  You take in everything like it is art, the sky to you is like a giant canvas, the stars small specks of paint.  Music moves you, your body constantly moving to a silent symphony that plays only for you.  You have loved books since you could hold one.  The first thing we learned you loved to do was count words and letters.  When you were four years old you told me there were twelve-thousand and fifty-two Z's in Daddy's chapter book.  You were so proud of yourself.  Words are definitely your magic, and boy do you love to laugh.  It echoes through our home and down the street.  It is impossible not to laugh with you when you are laughing.

We know you will always be uniquely you and that is just fine.  You have paved the way, so just continue to lead us behind you sweet love.  We didn't even know what we wanted until we got it.  It is funny how life works out that way.  Today I realized my heart couldn't be any more full when you approached me to give me a card you had made.  You told me that you had been reading your baby blanket every day and that you wanted to write me back a letter to tell me how you felt.  Before I even read it I felt my emotions take away my words, no matter what your feelings were, just knowing you were willing and able to share them with me was more than I could ask for.  What it said was far more than anything I could have expected:

"Dear Mommy,

I am really glad that you are my Mommy.

I love you so so much.

No matter where you are I will always love you.

Love,

Me"

Most importantly of all the things we wished for you, we know you feel loved. You my love are our "little miracle."

I Will See You When the Moon Goes Down and the Sun Comes Up

Every night since our son found the ability to speak to us he refused to let us leave his room with “goodnight, see you tomorrow.” He would swiftly shout back in his small sweet voice “no goodnight, not tomorrow.” Though to most it would seem like a defiant move to reject the idea of going to sleep that was not his reason, not one bit, not at all.

He simply needed the reassurance that closing his eyes meant nothing in his world would change.

I used to need that reassurance as well. For years our world was rocky, only barely remaining on it’s axis.  Our daughter and son’s health were in a near constant battle to stay stable keeping us in a revolving door of inpatient stays at the hospital. As the children continued to decline, so did my ability to stay faithful that they would stay with us long enough to see a cure for mitochondrial disease. Things have become a little calmer around here, but I would be lying if I said there were not days where that deep rooted fear did not climb to the surface of my mind. 

There were days he would wake up and find me gone. I hated that for him. So many; unexpected admissions with his sister, late night ambulance rides, middle of the night kisses goodbye, with no way to explain to a small-nonverbal-child that Mommy was coming back as soon as she could, wishing with all her heart that she could somehow be in two places at once. It was traumatizing for us both, the near constant separation that went on for well over a year. We all tried our best during those arduous times, but sometimes our best just wasn't good enough no matter how hard we tried. Only God knows how we came through, suffering only minimal scarring, on the other side. 

Not a day goes by where I do not count my blessings for that fact.

***********

I crawled into his bed, he lay on his side fidgeting with his flashlight. Placing his small hand in front of the light watching to see where it would fall, then glaring with fascination as it illuminated his hand when he interrupted the beam. I straightened out his covers and placed my head on his pillow. He rolled over turning off his flashlight, looking through me with his glassy grey eyes. 

“Are you sleepy yet?” I asked running my hands through his moppy-sand-colored curls. 

He smirked slightly curving only one side of his mouth, shrinking his eyes so that only his pupils were showing.  His thick eyelashes like blinds covering the small opening of his eye. “No, I not sleepy.”

“I think you are.” I stroked his baby soft cheek, his skin like satin.

He rolled over facing his top bunk, clicking his flashlight on and off, the light creating a perfect circle on the dull wood surface above. “Mommy, where does the moon go when the sun comes up?”

I laid still for a moment, unsure of what to think.  I was surprised by his sudden ability to formulate a question, the advanced thought process it must have taken, things he had struggled with since he had learned to speak. How long had he been thinking of this?

“Mommy?” He rolled back over pressing his small button nose to mine, so close I could smell his sweet baby breath.

“Well,” I paused for a moment to think “it is still there I guess, you just can’t really see it when the sun comes up.”

He sat up quickly, pulling the covers off of both of us, grappling for his flashlight, again shining it on the wall and then covering it with his hand, staring at it intently. “When the sun comes up the moon goes away? When the moon comes back the sun goes away?”

“Yes, but they don't really go away buddy. They are always there even when you can't see them.  Sometimes, when the sun is up, and you look really hard, you can still see the moon.” I sat up next to him gently taking the flashlight. I placed my hand on top of his letting the light shine through both of our fingers. He looked up and smiled, seeming to understand.

I finished tucking him in and started for his door. “Goodnight, sweet guy, Mommy will see you tomorrow.”

“No, no tomorrow, no goodnight.” He shot up and pouted.

“Mommy already tucked you in little man, it is time for me to go.” I turned around to leave.

“Say, I will see you when the moon goes down and the sun comes up, say that.” He was near tears, his chest rising and falling quickly, his face turning blotchy and red.

It was then that it hit me, he needed to know that just like the moon I wouldn't really go away, and just like the sun I would always come back. I walked back in and sat on the edge of his bed, placing my hand on his back.  He laid down, his mouth still in a downward curl.  His eyes turned towards his pillow. “I will see you when the moon goes down and the sun comes up.” 

He closed his eyes, smiling, and gently drifted off to sleep.

He Was Supposed to Play Football

Our youngest son was placed on continuous oxygen at five months old after struggling with a difficult respiratory infection that he just could not bounce back from.  What was supposed to be a treatment that remained within the confines of the hospital ended up following us home.  Weeks turned into months as we were promised he just needed a bit more time to recover.  The tiny cannula that nested inside of his button nose was a constant reminder that the life we had just brought into this world, our solid healthy looking baby boy, was far more fragile than we had thought.

Those weeks that became months soon became a year and as we met more hospitalizations and appointments with his doctors it became more and more clear that his little lungs were weaker than we had first hoped.  It became more clear that the life we had anticipated for him was going to be far from anything we could have considered fair.

As his first birthday approached and after all of my expectations for his quick healing had passed, I pointedly asked, during a rather difficult appointment, if they thought our son would ever be able to thrive off of his oxygen.  His doctor looked at me, patted my leg, and said "not all little boys are made to play football mom." The words that were meant to soothingly skirt around the truth struck me sharp like a dagger.  I was quiet for the rest of the appointment.  A large lump stood in my throat working as a flood gate to hold back the tears.  The drive home was long and somber, the humming of his oxygen concentrator drowning out all of my rational emotional thought.

He was supposed to play football.

I didn't speak about it for days.  In fact I barely spoke for days.  I was lost within my own thoughts, ones that I could barely sort out.  I should have known better; nothing in this life is guaranteed.  We already had to learn through our daughter's illness just how fragile life can be.  Certainly in the grand scheme of things sports were not important.  Perhaps sports wouldn't even be his thing anyway, maybe he would be the next stand up comedian, or an artist.  I was obviously being silly.

Then the guilt started to eat away at me for having these thoughts at all.  Shouldn't I just be grateful that I was blessed to have him?  What kind of mother worries about a future of sports when her son can barely even breathe and eat at the same time? I knew every single moment with him was a gift and here I was wasting that time worrying about something that simply should not have mattered. My mind was a battlefield, and I was quickly losing ground.

When I finally could not stand the sound of my own internal bashing anymore I picked up the phone. I dialed one of the only people I knew who could listen to me try and spit out the emotional wrecking ball that banged around somewhere between my two ears.  Before my dear friend could even say hello, I broke down into a sob that only too much coffee and days inside my head could buy me.  Quickly and without regard for what she might be doing I blurted out "he was supposed to play football!"  It took a few moments and stifled sobs for me to realize the other end of the phone was uncomfortably quiet.  "Hello," I sniffed."

"You know this isn't about football," she said, in pointed school teacher voice.

"What?"

"This whole thing.  It isn't about football, or any other sport.  You already know that.  It is about you grieving over the life you thought he would have and fearing the outcome of his future, and that's ok. Nobody anticipates that they are going to give birth to a child that is sick, it is ok to be sad about that. It is ok to grieve for the things you thought he would have.  That is only natural.  Take your moment, your moments, trust me there will be more, own them, and move on."

She was right, in every way really, it was not about football.  I was grieving for him, the baby who had a medical supply bag instead of a diaper bag, who had an apnea monitor instead of a baby monitor, the baby who had more medical supplies and wires than binkies and bottles, and the future that had become so unclear. It was about the loss of a dream.  It was about my concern over his ability to thrive in a world that he did not seem compatible with, and the doctors who could not fix him.  It was a love so strong my heart could literally explode, and the fear of what might happen to me, if something happened to him.


Years have passed since that dreary day and our son has grown into an amazing four year old boy.  His lungs still stink at being lungs, his mitochondrial disease has made sure of that, but he has found his pace in this world.  Today he grabbed a football and my heartstrings as he asked me and his big brother to go out and play.  Memories I had hidden deep inside bubbled up to the surface as I watched my rosey cheeked boy wobble around with a wide eyed grin on his face trying to play keep away from his brother, happily failing, as they both plummeted to the ground.  His laughter echoing in my ears still now hours after he has been tucked into bed for the night.

You see none of this was about football, not even a little bit, but watching him today, having that moment just filled me with so much joy and hope.  It reminded me that his life was never ours to plan from the start, but right now I have faith that that's okay.

Desires of the Heart

"You can have anything of his you would like," my grandmother said as we stood in the doorway of her bedroom.  It had been a month since my grandfather had passed away and yet I still expected him to be there.  Everything looked the same.  Not even the air had been disturbed and still, it was disturbing.

I sat down on my grandfather's side of the bed.  The covers were pulled up and tucked under his pillow, crisp, military style.  It was as if the bed had never been lived in, just the way they liked to keep it.  His reading glasses were carefully atop of the newspaper he had been reading the night of his stroke.  I shivered slightly, feeling the lump within my throat beginning to develop.  My grandmother sat next to me, placing her hand on my lap.

"Go ahead," she repeated.

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the things that I would want of his.  The things I wanted, I knew I could never have.  I wanted the last can of beer that ever touched his lips, the motor oil that stained all of his undershirts.  I wanted to have the first robin that he saw every spring, the one that told him summer was soon to come.  I wanted the handprints of flour he left on his navy blue work pants, every time he baked.  I wanted the last pink chocolate he had eaten and the box it came in.  I wanted the very last breath he took on this side of Heaven.  I wanted him.

I cried the same single tear that I wiped off my grandfather's cheek the day he finally let go, letting it linger, a reflection of the pain that resonated so deep inside of me.

"Don't cry sweetheart." She kissed the top of my head.

I leaned into her, absorbing the warmth of her I so desperately needed to feel.  "This is so hard. There is so much of him that I want, but if I can't have him I am not sure any of it means anything."

"It means everything," she said softly.  "There is a little piece of him in everything still here.  There is not one thing in this room that does not make me think of him." Her strong soothing voice began to waiver.  "You just have to find the thing that speaks to you in that way." She gave me a gentle squeeze before leaving the room, shutting the door behind her.

I thought deeply about what she said.  I got up slowly and walked to his dresser.  With conviction I opened his top drawer.  Carefully folded in the corner was a stack of white-cotton handkerchiefs.  Right away I knew this was my heart's prize.  I took one out and shut the drawer.  I rubbed it against my cheek.  I wanted to feel what he felt everytime he touched his "hanky" to his skin.  It brushed me softly, like a feather in the wind.

I thought about how he always had one with him, accompanying him in his back pocket.  I thought about how it contained every bead of sweat from his forehead, the echo of all the hard work he had done for his family.  Not only was it a part of him, but he was a part of it.

In my hands was the link between; him and I, now and than, life and death.

Dream Land

     "Momma will you rub my back until I fall asleep," I asked as she was about to leave the room.  Every night it was the same question, and never had she denied me the pacifying pleasure of her touch.  She turned out the light and returned to my side. The bed sunk slightly as she made herself comfortable.

     "Only until the count of one hundred," she said.  This was the rule.  I turned to lay flat on my belly.  She pushed the wisps of hair away from my face and kissed me gently.  The moisture on my cheek evaporated slowly, like a puddle on a sunny day.  The smell of her perfume wrapped around me keeping me warmer than the blanket she had tucked me in.  The visible corner of my mouth curled slowly into a smile.  "Close your eyes," she whispered gently. The sound of her voice tiptoed within my ears.  I pressed my eyes together, expressing an eagerness of the earning for her touch.  She straightened out my shirt, ridding it of all it's creases.  When everything was perfect, she placed the warmth of her hand upon my back.

     "One, two, three..." I relaxed my eyes.  The circles she made on my back were in perfect rhythm with her counting.  Her voice the sweetest symphony of lullaby.  As I began to fade into a world of slumber, her voice and touch faded too.  The higher the number, the further I traveled from reality.  I wanted nothing more than to take her with me, to hold her hand and run across the clouds, to slide down the biggest rainbow and land in a giant pot of gold.  I wanted to take her to a place where we could play all night without disruption, a world made of chocolate, where animals were our friends, and ate straight from our hands.  "98, 99, 100."  She spoke softly as to not disturb my journey.  "Meet you in Dream Land."

                                                               **************

    "Can you hold my hand Momma," she asked as she writhed slightly, obviously uncomfortable.

    "Sure sweetheart." I had spent the better half of our month in the hospital sleeping beside her.  She had been quite ill and wanted to be held and coddled.  When she wasn't having seizures or outbreaks of pain and nausea, she was simply fearing the time when those things would come again.  I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her tight to my body.  "Close your eyes baby girl."

     "I'm afraid," she said her bottom lip quivering, tears brimming, magnifying the flecks of stormy grey within her sky blue eyes.

    "Mommy is here, there is nothing to be afraid of."  A statement, I only wished could have been true.

    "What if when I go to sleep, I don't wake up again?" She looked me straight into my eyes, penetrating them deeply as if she was trying to read my thoughts.

    "What would make you think such..."

    "I heard what the doctor said this morning."  The tears that had built a barrier within her came flooding down all at once.  I pulled her tighter.  I wanted so desperately to protect her from all of this, to take it from her and put it on myself, but I knew I couldn't, because if I had been able to, I already would have.  We talked for a while about the unfortunate conversation she never should have heard.  We talked about how I wished I could erase it from her mind, so that she could go on being a kid and do kid things, without the fear of mortality, or anything else that does not belong to the mind of a child.  Unfortunately that would be the first of many moments that would take part of that privilege of childhood away and replace it with the untimely wisdom and understanding that this world is not always what we want it to be, what we hope it to be.

    "Do you want to meet in Dream Land," I asked, drying her eyes.  She looked up, gently sniffing, wiping her nose with her sleeve.

    "Where?"

    "It is a special place that we can only meet when we are asleep.  We have to pick a place, close our eyes and try real hard to imagine it.  It is very special and only few people know about it.  I used to meet my mother there when I was little, and maybe if you try real hard, we could meet there tonight?"  I brushed the freshly fallen hair from her damp eyes.  She looked stunned to not have known that such a place existed.

     "Can it be anything I like?"

     "Of course."

     "Can I bring others there," she asked scooching up slightly in her bed.

     "Only if they keep it secret of course."

     "Is there sickness there?"

     "No, of course not.  Only what you want, nothing else.  If something else tries to follow, you just tell it to go away, and it will have to listen, because it is your land." She smiled and lied back on the bed.  She liked the idea of being in charge, of not hurting, of not being sick.  She rolled in to snuggle as she often did as she was falling asleep.

     "Mommy?"

     "Yes, love," I said, as I rubbed the wrinkles out of the back of her shirt.

     "When I do go, you know, forever.  Can I stay there, in Dream Land, so you know where to find me?"  I pulled her in tighter, tears now filling my eyes.

     "Come on now love, lets go to Dream Land and see what adventures we can find."

     

Her Everything

He will do anything to make her laugh.  A smile simply will not do.  Forget the embarrassment that a child his age typically feels just walking around in their own skin, he does not care about that.  He is willing to; strike a pose, make a voice, contort his face, put on a show, going to great lengths to change her mood.  All he cares about is knowing she is happy, knowing whatever he is doing has put that "can't catch your breath" roar of laughter inside of her.  That is the kind of brother he is.

Their happiness is deeply intertwined within each other, as if it physically pains one to see the other sad.  In his world a smile is always a choice.  In her world sometimes a smile is just too difficult to muster up.  At times he has physically taken his hands and turned her mouth into a smile.  This in turn has created a real true smile, problem solved.

Every night he kisses her forehead in her sleep.  Somehow she knows it is him, a smile again.  Nobody buys more time with smiles like he does.  No one else lights up her face like he does.  If we could put some of his love in a bottle for her, we would surely have found the cure for any sadness this life could create.

He is her big brother, he is her everything.

My Kind of Moment

I love moments in life that are filled with beauty and simplicity.  The moments that break you from the clutter of worries in your mind and onto the purity of the immediacy that surrounds you. The kind that temporarily erase the "could have beens" and "what ifs" and solely let you see what is right in front of you.

***

Our oldest son found a praying mantis.  As the little ones all gathered to see the small creature who had been spied, trying it's best to blend in with the earth, our youngest son could barely contain himself.  He stood behind his siblings, trying his best to find the perfect place to get a peek at their newest friend.  "Let me hold hims, let me hold hims!"

"Just a minute, buddy," our oldest said quietly still carefully observing it himself.  Our youngest's excitement grew by the moment.  He was wriggling and writhing trying his best to not explode, not yet having earned his patience badge at only three years old.  He kept rubbing his own hands as if he was lathering them with soap, clearly trying to keep his fidgeting fingers from grabbing without permission.  For a second he would quiet, and then he would explode again not being able to contain it any longer.

"Let me see hims! Let me hold hims!"

"Just a minute." Our oldest tried again, knowing he could only put off the inevitable for so long.

"I need hims!" He grabbed his cheeks and squeezed dragging his eyes down exposing the pink of his inner eyelids. Clearly the pain of waiting had become far too much.  I worried that a creature as small as our new friend could live through such an excited, emotional handling, from a three year old who had been made to wait far too long; a three year old who is still mastering the fine art of "gentle touches."  I looked over at him.  He had this poor; melted cheeked, slumped shoulder, shoe scuffing, sad lump of a little boy look.  He wanted nothing more than to play with the magical creature that was lurking in our back yard.

"Let him see it," I said softly.  His face instantly shot up.  His excitement meter filled back to the brim and maybe over.  He jumped for joy, clapped, and jumped again.

"My turn?"

"Your turn." I winced as his big brother handed him the tiny creature.  I said a small prayer that it would not be it's last moments on Earth, premature death at the hand of a little boy who wanted nothing more than to just love it too much.  As it crawled into the palm of his hand the world stood as still as his ever moving baby hands had now found themselves.  He didn't make a noise, he didn't move his feet, he just stared.  Just him and what was unfolding right in front of him, tranquility, simplicity, perfection.

My kind of moment.

Forever Friends

She sat quietly enjoying a book.  He stood closely looking on, nudging her every few seconds, a constant reminder of his presence.  She found it quite easy to ignore him at first, having nearly four years of experience, but as time passed and his persistence only got stronger, she found it best to just give in.

She gently shifted over and motioned for him to join her.  He threw his leg up onto the chair as if he was climbing an obstacle course plopping heavily beside her.  As she began to read aloud he became entranced, enthralled, with every passing word that left her lips.  He shifted his gaze slightly from time to time only to see if the pictures on the pages matched the words she magically lifted from them, each time they did a little giggle would softly echo from deep inside him.

As the story drew on their connection drew closer, so intertwined that even their feet would adjust ever so slightly, at the same times, in the same manner.  When the story was finished, she closed the book.  She looked at her little brother, and he at her.  Their faces now told more of a story than the fairy tale she had read to him.