I pledged to be a Truth Teller with my blog. This is my truth for today .
I am with my precious son in these pictures. He came to me because he bumped his arm and asked “Gonna fall off, Mommy?” His worries (his anxiety disorder) of what the bump would do to him, was worse than the actual bump.
He is weeks from turning 11, and his head and arm position on my body is because of the gluten free diet he’s been on since May 2018 because he has celiac disease. He has not let me touch him in a loving way nor has he come to me for comfort like this since he was 2. I am overwhelmed with gratitude that this occurred. This is why I took pictures.
The irony of this is that I had been taking a mental break when he came to me. Why? Because I was emotionally hungover from a very difficult appointment yesterday with his neurologist. Over the course of a two hour period, she walked us through her findings (IQ, learning disabilities and how “he’s the most complex case she’s seen). She concluded with recommendations for a more suitable academic setting.
Her overall findings were not a huge surprise, but many of the details are. Hearing details about the realities of my son’s cognitive disabilities (which she is not sure will improve), is heart wrenching.
I am sad for my son. I wince with heartache as I glimpse at his possible future. In these moments , it’s hard not to go to “what did I do wrong? What could I have done differently ? How did Autism snatch up my baby boy?” It’s hard to find hope right now. But I search for hope. I cling to the fact he is able to come to me to be soothed like this . This miracle of sorts is working hard to trump the pain I feel from the test results. I can finally rub his back as he snuggles into me and he doesn’t jump away like a cat. I quietly weep.
Having depression makes me more vulnerable to situations of this nature . I know this. My husband knows this. We accept it. I name it and walk my husband through this truth. He is tender and loving. No longer do we fight this. Fighting it is fuel which ignites the intensity of sadness. So we let it sit. I allow it to stir in me just enough to teach me something. We know it will subside.
My son did not pick up on my sadness when he came to me, because he was very focused on his arm.
With out his knowing , in his need for soothing, he also comforted me – head in my shoulder nook, arm on my chest, hand landing perfectly on my heart. That adorable hand I once kissed over and over when he was a baby until the Autism got him and took that hand away from me. A hand I couldn’t hold for years. A hand I couldn’t kiss if he got a “boo-boo.”
Now, it’s resting on my heart.