I have actually grown accustomed to having dry eyes of late, but the month of December always makes me mindful of the Christ-child...and quiet for whisperings of heavenly things. SO for me, again, I seem to be more prone to tears.
Parker has begun his courses at CEOP and I accompany him every Monday and Friday morning. Two classes I am required to attend:his individual occupation therapy and his individual speech therapy. But he now has some group communication classes as well as what looks to me like playtime with other deaf, implanted toddlers.
I was invited into his first class in the room labeled "Jardin d'enfants". I was meant to ease the transition with him for his first few minutes. But we came to class in full swing, and what I saw was strikingly beautiful. These 5 minutes will be forever etched into my soul. I'm certain there won't be many more moments in my life quite as magnificent.
These children's chairs were lined up against the wall. It was snacktime.
I saw these teeny children, babies on the cusp of childhood. These deaf, baby-almost-children were signing and speaking and communicating.
One boy signed, "gateau", another girl signed "boire", another "l'eau"...
They were meant to stay seated in their chairs during snacktime. Imagine keeping one hearing toddler in his chair during gouter. Then add 5 more little ones and hearing deficits, and other potential difficulties, and I suddenly admired this team infinitely more than when I entered the room.
Parker has only been walking for about a month. He's two, and he's a boy. It was the first time he was in the classroom, surrounded by toys and games and slides and chaos. He was excited to explore. But his speech therapist was kneeling next to him, and sitting him back in his chair, literally every 2 seconds while signing & saying, "assieds-toi" (sit down), repeatedly.
It was comically beautiful.
My world and worries of the past many months seemed to boil down to this very moment in time...
Would he succeed?
Could he stay seated?
If he couldn't, would they refuse him?
Could he hear?
Could he even understand what they were saying (in french, or LSF) to him?
Or is his brain even capable of learning and hearing and assimilating such things?
...."And you want me to have a cookie? And drink? Next to all these other kids? With our backs against the wall? With all of these other things to see and do and be?!?!?!? And I've only just started exploring the world in an upright position. And how looooonnnngggg do you expect me to stay put?" I could almost hear his little brain thinking, while watching his face from across the room. He was trying so hard to contain himself, and take it all in.
I fought back tears twice, for the sheer, perfect, beauty of it.
For these gorgeous little creatures.
Some who spoke, some who signed...all who communicated in some way or another.
Including Parker who clearly communicated that he was in fact, not capable of remaining seated in this new environment.
He wanted to check things out.
But what I saw was that not only were these children beautiful in their very uniqueness. But their beauty was actually in their commonality.
No matter how much I want to think that Parker is just like us, just another one of us...., he was so much more like these other two year olds. He is living and hearing like them. Not like me, not really like us.
And that was surreal for me.
And I thought of the roads that each of these children have already traveled, and where they are destined to travel before their journeys complete.
And how much their parents love them. And how perhaps, some of these parents' hearts have been broken as mine has been, to hear or see the news of their baby not hearing.
And how these same parents must rejoice in the successes of their beautiful little ones. As I do mine.
And how much these educators love these children. And how hard they work for them.
Parker had a brain scan check up in December. I've decided its quite possibly one of the worst places on the earth to be. Not only because I hate the fact that me, we, my baby are in this situation...and not only because they wrap Parker up like a baby-mummy on a hard plastic board to put him into the machine, or because they ask me to remove his hearing devices, his deficient 5th sense to do it.
But because it is old, and dirty, and I see other children in comas, on ventilators going to x-ray or MRI, and I wonder what their destiny holds, and how, and if, their lives will change after they wake up from this coma. If they wake up from that coma. But also because I remember that heavy, looming, waiting, and wondering worry. And it brings me back to that same, old, dirty room....how ever many months ago.
Parker and I strolled into Necker. Upon arrival to the waiting room for the MRI, I saw a mother holding and gazing into her newborn's face. She was tired, stressed, yet relieved. We moved onward down the hallway. Next, I saw a couple sitting close together, he, with his arm wrapped tightly around her. The woman had obviously been crying. Their destiny waited behind those closed doors to the scanner...with their baby of 4 months. I sat down next to a woman and her pre-adolescent son. They were cheerful, but worried.
I sat there, realizing we shared a horrifying commonality: our destinies were tied to the results of these medical exams. Our futures would be determined by those reports...
And after about 30 minutes of chasing Parker around the waiting room, I happened to come back in as I heard the tech assistant say to the mother of the about 10-11 year old boy, "Your son's brain scan was perfectly normal!" The mother burst into tears, held her son in her arms and said, "This is the best birthday present I could ever get!"
I turned my head and wept.
Wept only as a mother heavy with waiting and worry could appreciate the magnitude of these words. I wept for her joy, for her son's brighter future, for her relief, and for this sanctuary of a dirty place who gives such news as this.
So after Parker's scan, we went to see the neurosurgeon. She was very impressed to see him enter her office on his own accord. She had forgotten her prophecy that he would walk in 2010. She reported a slight decrease in his hydrocephaly, and would expect for things only to improve from here on out.
EXCEPT that perhaps since he was so small when his shunt was placed, that the risk of it getting blocked and kinked as he grew was rather significant. I asked her how serious it would be if this happened? She responded very matter-of-factly, "He would just need a new shunt in a new neurosurgery", like it was just another day at the office. She said it was rare for a shunt to last an entire lifetime. And that I should watch for vomiting or change of consciousness, etc.
So puh-lease tell me you can appreciate why I seem so stressed everytime Parker throws up, or seems a bit "off"...or tired...and "No, honey, I'm not over-reacting!"
But it wasn't until about 10 days later when I received the doctor's report that I fully comprehended how far we have come, and what peak we are currently sitting on...
She opened with, "Parker va bien".
Parker va bien?!?!?!?!
Parker is well?!!??!
Huh?!?!?
I haven't said the words "well", or "great" for a veeeerrrryyyyy long time. I may have just begun to say "good" again, when people ask how I am, or Parker, or all of us, and that, at best, is seldom.
I avoided that question for a long time, and still usually do. By asking the asker the same question.
I couldn't hardly believe what I read, so I wrapped up the doctor's notes and carried them around with me for the rest of the afternoon. Abby even asked me what it was, sticking out of my purse. I told her to read it, and that it made me cry. She read it and exclaimed, "Mom! It's great news! Ohhhhhh! I love that little guy!"
So you must realize that he's doing better when you hear that "il va bien"...and if that isn't enough for you, this should be:
He's been in time-out twice this week. He is naughty!
At first we were happy he was doing anything , even if it wasn't exactly angelic. I distinctly remember the first time I found both twins turning Abby's room upside down, smiling, and thinking to myself, "This is the way it is supposed to be!"
So when he did anything sort of naughty, we were just glad he ws getting into trouble like he should, like all toddlers would.
But recently I realized he actually only does naughty stuff. And that we needed to start giving him more limits. I spend my days following him around telling him "no" in four different languages.
Let's face it, he must be doing better if I'm sending him to time-out.
At church last weekend, the kids re-enacted a live creche of Joseph, Mary, and Jesus. All of our kids chose their own parts. We had a heavenly Mary (Abigail was stunning), a shining star (Axelle was so proud and bright!), and 2 gorgeous angels (how terribly fitting that Hannah would be heralding the other angels with a cherubic baby Penelope hand-in-hand)...and one show-stopping, chubby little cow. They were all absolutely lovely, and deserving of many accolades. I was touched, as usual, by the simplistic beauty of children portraying spiritual things.
But found myself again fighting back tears and particularly touched to see Parker, with great enthusiasm, walking up and down the aisle, waving to the crowd, in a tight-fitted, old, hand-me-down, black and white cow ensemble.
I had to stop myself from thinking it was not at all normal or expected, but it was actually quite incredible.
Most of the people in the room had no idea how monumental this event was...
And how one year ago, heck, practically one month ago, I could not have dreamed up this reality.
As Parker waved and walked enthusiastically, the hymn the congregation sang was strikingly appropriate for me-another unforgettable moment in my life. I sang my favorite Christmas hymn, which unfortunately does not exist in English.
"Il est né, le divin enfant!"
Parker waved, and walked, and turned, and did some more. He worked the crowd with his new found balance, cow outfit, and joy.
Of course he is not the Christ-child, but to me, he is truly divine. And I am so, so, so thankful for him, for his life, for his success, and all he is teaching us during this season.
The Christ child is the reason why we are here. I know that. It is the Plan of God that we come to earth to experience this thing we call life. And learn and grow every-single-day.
Who'd want to miss out on that?
We wish you all goodness, peace, joy, and warmth this holiday season. May you be surrounded by those you love, and those who love you..and may you, and I, better learn to love those not easily loved.
Or who are deaf or blind to the many beauties that surround us each and every day.
Merry, Merry Christmas!
