Hills and Valleys, Parking Lots and Restaurants

It was toward the end of the Early Bird Special dinner hour and the parking lot was full. But that was for  the restaurant next door. This particular lot was almost empty; my ol’ rustbucket van parked close to the medical  building where my son was to have a procedure done. I was nervous; he was beyond that and teetering on the edge of hyperventilating. Across the street was the hospital he was born at and spent a small portion of his childhood and teen years. The two brick wings of that building seemed to reach out toward him, encouraging him to come back and stay awhile.

And in a month he would.

Right now though he had a more pressing matter to take care of and it was not going to be pleasant. I wouldn’t be able to  stay by his side, holding his hand. All I could do would be to wait in the waiting room of this doctor’s office and listen to muffled sounds coming from the examining room. All I could do was bite my lip until it was sore, ring my hands (and yes, there is such a thing as ringing one’s hands, especially when you’re the parent), and pray–for what, I don’t know. Pray for his pain to go away? For him to be strong? For me not to faint? All I want for him is for all this to stop. But when you’re born with a syndrome that causes various things to happen to your body, it’s on-going. You, as the patient or as the parent, learn to take it like rocky hills among the serene valleys. It’s no longer an adventure, like I used to tell him as a child, but hurdles to overcome.

Oh, but I so wanted instead to take him to that that Early Bird Special next door, even if it was just dry meatloaf and gummy mashed potatoes. Even if we would be the only ones under 70. At least it’d be more normal than this, when many people are finishing up their day and going home, and here my son and I were, going into a medical building where it was so void of patients and staff that our footsteps echoed as we slowly made our way to room number 101.

As we entered the waiting room, my stomach growled. My son smiled and said, “Mom!”  I shrugged and smiled back.

After he made it over this hill, we were going to cross that valley of parking lots and enter the blissful world of food.

Merry Christmas on Leap Year Day

On my MP3 player I have about four hundred songs so far. Of course they’re sorted by albums and artists and genre. This afternoon I shoved the earbuds in my ears, turned the volume up loud, and pressed “play all.”

And it did. Right after Elton John’s “Blessed” I heard the wonderfully uplifting instrumental “Christmas Bells” by Montavani followed by Canon in D (a Christmas song) by Trans-Siberian Orchestra. I felt so good listening to those last two songs I didn’t hit “next.” In fact, I hit “replay.” Three times.

I realize why now, two months after December 29 , I seem to be even more receptive to the joy of the Christmas season.

There are no presents to buy. No gifts to wrap. No money to pull from the bank and put in appropriate envelopes as tips. No rush to the supermarket for that special cake or must-have brown sugar and maple glazed ham. No long lines at the post office. Sometimes I want to just put my feet up and take a few days or weeks off from November through New Year’s.

Now my mind isn’t as cluttered  and I can fully listen to the music that usually plays only in the periphery of my mind during the Christmas season.

Happy Leap Year!

I Thank You For Not Laughing

To All Social Workers, Special Ed Teachers, or Anyone Who Works With The Special Needs Population:

When we, the parents of the special needs person, are upset, do not sigh audibly and say “I’m just breathing” when called to task on it.

Stay calm, even if we aren’t. You’re the professional. Act like one. The parent is too close to the situation.

Many times we are extremely tired, even if we work from home. You would be too if you had to walk in the parent’s shoes for that proverbial mile. Many days it feels like we’ve not only walked, but scaled high fences and swam the Atlantic Ocean without a break.

Speaker phone is okay for planned conference calls. It is not okay when you just want an audience of your colleagues.

We are so used to dealing face-to-face with anyone who specializes in working with the special needs population, that we can sense when you’re being condescending. Or rolling your eyes when we can’t see you. It’s not paranoia; it’s being astute.

And last, thank you to all the truly professional social workers, counselors, special ed teachers, and case workers for not laughing at us regarding any of the above. We are only human trying to navigate the waters of uncharted territory. And we are trying our very best.