Cause & Effect

On your dad’s 20th birthday you were still in the womb, swimming around subtle in the stoic quiet, like a minnow. Sometimes I could hear your kicks and shifts, not a whisking of water but an echo coming from the limbs themselves, like when we think we can hear our heartbeats but know it’s only a feeling. You came in and out like waves. A face turning toward the light then back again. Arms to your little mouth then back to your chest A little backbone shifting from the right to the left side of my belly. Little frog legs drawing up then kicking out, sending a shock of fluid into a momentary whirlpool. Little tempest, little rowboat bobbing and tilting, little waves.

Anyhow your dad and I walked barefoot and lazy along Lake Michigan’s Indiana Dunes shore that June, picking little bits of shell, stone, and flotsam for a mobile we never made you (not yet, anyhow). The whole sky was orange and shone on his face like early Technicolor, unnatural and odd. You’ll learn that I’m easily made uncomfortable by the littlest things. I must have wandered off nearer the water by myself for a while, staring out at the colors. A little wave rushed in and washed the sand off the tops of my toes, kindly, then retreated. Another wave, larger and with more violent intent, ran in red rover then out again. There you were.

That was the first time you were reflected in the outside world. That moment you became a metaphor, a mirror image, then a thread linking your little bones to the world surrounding. You became stuck, held in the grasp, the gravity of bones and mud and skin. Your minnow bones capsized and became real, a little boy’s body tossing and tumbling in a great void, legs asunder, pale arms flailing before resting calm, turned upside down in wait. There you were, allied with the shift and the shore for the first time, outside of myself, tied to all. You may let it be a certainty, a swaddling, a warm pair of arms to return home to.

4.

The peak of utter exhaustion is not the time to write, instead you should replace words with simple action. Wash the bottles, fold today’s clothes for tomorrow and lay them at the foot of the rocking chair, plug in the star lights, move the three stuffed animals under the foot of the crib, have the train toy within reach of the bed, prepare the pump for the middle of night waking, floss and brush, then wash your face, brush your hair, actually begin to enjoy one of your baby’s lullaby CDs, lay out two books – one brainy and one a novel printed in 1868 found still on your high school bookshelf, pile the laundry together for tomorrow, wash the mysterious silt from the humidifier and replace it with clean water and salt, then steal some time for yourself.

Try not to think of the Caring for Children with Cerebral Palsy book on your shelf. Try not to think of the Speech Therapy and the Bobath Approach to Cerebral Palsy book, either, nor the mothering.commune special needs forum where you usually just lurk and therefore make no real acquaintances or gather any real support. Try also not to wonder whether or not the feeding team in Springfield, whose number you will be receiving tomorrow via your helpful great nurse (pal) Dolores from Children’s Memorial GI department, will help Finn any more than speech therapy. Try to believe Dolores that they will. Try to believe that these days will pass, that you won’t be shuffling back and forth from doctor to doctor to therapist to chiropractor back to doctor again because your fumbling hands can no longer get your son’s NG tube back into its proper place without a diversionary stop at the lungs. Try not to think of the weird statement made by OT, one that would have never occurred to you on your own – “so he won’t be trapped inside his body” to which you didn’t know what to say but responded immediately “I don’t think he will, I think he’ll walk, I think he’ll just need help from us to do those things.” Try not to let those thoughts creep under your skin and form strange lumps or push the acid into your throat. If you can’t help that, try not to let that acid burn a hole in your stomach so you won’t have to be treated for an ulcer. Try not to think of the statistics you’ve read: Mothers of children with chronic conditions like autism and cerebral palsy have immune systems that are 9-17 years older than the control group and Mothers of special needs children have brain scans that show post traumatic stress disorder. Try not to think of the careless things your mother has said, nor the fact that she pointed out something pertinent that had not occurred to you: You’re obsessed with this.

Try to listen instead to the cozy sweet sigh coming from your sleeping baby, lying in your bed. Try to remember that he still, at 6 months, has many smiles and laughs for you throughout the day. Try to think of how he looks for you during therapy sessions to make sure you’re still in the room. Try to remember that February night in the ER when you looked at each other for several minutes after everything had calmed, IV pumping fluids into his tiny veins, when you recognized him for the first time as your son, then breathe.

Breathe again.
And again
and again
and again
and again

without realizing that you’ve spent your self-time typing out your obsessions (loves) worries (cares) self-help (records) at the peak of utter exhaustion