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
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
1 Comments:
B. You know I love you. I think about you a lot. You are a mother. Mothers worry. I worry. He is young yet and for what the outcome is, he is too young for you to tell. He sounds normal the way he is developing, but there may be some slow parts. You are a good mom. You love him and no matter what you will always love him. Sweet face. Smiles. Kisses. Memories.
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