Strangers and their Accidental Lessons

The past few days have been very emotional for me.  Especially yesterday. 

Watching Jr Seau's mother during the press conference yesterday broke my heart.  Shattered it.  Not because I knew him personally.  Not because I am a die hard Chargers fan.  But because, like me, she is a mother, and to watch a mother's plea to God to take her not her son was and still is incredibly and profoundly devastating.

Tuesday morning Emilio had another neurology appointment.  They met with us for about an hour.  They adjusted his seizure medication, the dosage changes as he grows, because it is based on his weight.  And they observed him, watched what he did, asked him to perform some simple tasks such as feed a tiny toy baby with a bottle, stack some blocks, sign some words, they asked questions, and we received a new diagnosis.  ADHD.  The words on the paper stood out as big and as bold as they do right above.  And again, my heart ached.  One more roadblock.  One more obstacle.

When typical kids go for a routine check up at their pediatrician's office they get stickers and lollipops and high fives.  But it seems like just the opposite happens at a neurology appointment.  Instead of the "wow you're growing so fast!" or "look how smart you are!"  type of comments made by a normal pediatrician you get sighs and arm crossed doctors who analyze and observe your child's every birthmark.  Their every move is being closely followed to try and decipher what your child is doing, if its appropriate for their age and try to label them with a new disability if it's not. Each time we've been to see our neurologist we walk away deflated and stressed, with a new diagnosis and a new prescription to fill.  More poison that'll "make him better". 

And if we decline?  We're told that we're impairing him from learning and growing. That the neurologist isn't upset with us, he's "upset at the situation" as he sits there huffing with his arms crossed.
 

But the evil little Vietnamese doctor is highly intelligent.  We trust him.  He knows his stuff.  On top of being our neurologist, he's also the director of the autism department at Children's Hospital.  So we try not to question his opinion too often.  But sometimes somethings are not negotiable.  Aaaand then the guilt trip begins.

Yesterday was a bittersweet day.  In the lobby of Emilio's physical therapy office I was approached by a woman with a small boy named William.  She began asking me questions about Emilio's autism and his epilepsy.  She said that her son, William who's also 3, also has epilepsy.  She shared with me that he was born two months early and weighed only two pounds at birth.  He also has cerebral palsy, mental retardation, lung disease, and was just diagnosed with autism a week ago.  I knew at that very moment that this was no coincidental or accidental meeting. 

I asked her "so how are you taking it?" and her answer BLEW ME AWAY.  She said "you know, I knew he was different.  I knew he was special, I don't need anyone to tell me that.  So they could go on labeling him whatever which way so that he could get the services that he needs but it makes no difference to me.  I'm still going to love him no matter what."

In my head, as she is saying this, I think oh my God!  It's taken me MONTHS to come to terms with all of this.  And she was just diagnosed last week!!!  Every time we go to a neurologist appointment and come out with a new diagnosis I crash emotionally.  I sob, I get depressed, break into a million pieces.  And it takes a lot of effort on my part to recollect myself to where I'm able to function again.  That's usually a 24 to 48 hour turn around time because I am a mother after all and I have children to take care of so my pity party is over before curfew.  I kind of like that about me, I don't hold grudges, I forget things easily, and I get over it quick.  Its sort of a coping mechanism I think. 

But this lady at the physical therapy's office completely had me floored at the amazing strength she exhibited, being faced with so many different disabilities, her son being so young, and...she also told me that when she had William, her husband walked away from their family.  He did not want a special needs child and just decided it was too much for him.  William is her 3rd child.  She was left alone to fight this by herself, with 3 kids that depend solely on her. 

And here I am complaining about a four letter acronym that in the grand scheme of things, doesn't really make a difference.  It doesn't change the child I have.  It doesn't make him any worse or any less adorable.  I'm not minimizing my feelings, I still get frustrated, I still get irritated, I still feel blue once in a while.  But we will adapt.  I will get over it and move on.  Because I am a mother, after all. 

And as mothers we all have our own cross to bear.  We all have our own battles, our own obstacles and roadblocks.  For some it means having to raise your children on your own because their dad isn't present, either by choice (because he's a loser) or because of uncontrolled circumstances.  For others its not being able to conceive at all, or suffering multiple miscarriages.  And for some it's having to bury their own child before their time, like Mrs. Seau.  None of us leave this earth unscathed.

But as women we are built Ford tough...only tougher. More like an old Chevy truck, the kind your grandpa used to drive.  The kind that was super dependable and never let you down.