Broken

Promises, that is. To my sweet angel.  The promise to write something every day. It was a bit unrealistic, clearly.

These days fly by. I think many thoughts about Dylan in the space of each day, sometimes cry, sometimes just smile. According to my pastor, he is now in a state of perpetual love and bliss and, bluntly stated, couldn't give a rat's backside as to whether we down here are sad. I don't mean to sound ugly; quite the opposite, actually. I never want him to feel as though he's missing out on anything wonderful ever again. 

Here on this lowly plane, we struggle. Lately it is Colin who requires so much care into the night. Over the past year we have trialed ADHD meds, joined social skills group therapy, been told he may be on the lower end of the Austism spectrum. We've had some success with the meds, offset by a decent degree of side effects. Tonight he was coughing and stretching his neck so much--a series of motor tics--that he couldn't get to sleep until I rubbed his back and asked him to picture his favorite places. This, after we struggled with homework through bouts of anxiety and tears. From both of us.

We don't yet know the full extent of Colin's challenges. He is like an onion, with many layers of sweetness, inattentiveness, anxiety, daydreaming, monents of stunning clarity, obsessive behavior, eagerness to please, humor that comes outta nowhere, and extreme sadness over his brother. And good old-fashioned kid manipulation. I know I am a target, with the guilt I carry around about failing to provide a healthy brother. Somewhere between my dangerously-close-to-enabling (but too accurate to ignore) suspicion that we're dealing with more disorders than one, and his dad's rampant suspicion that I'm being "played" a whole lot, lies the truth. I'm convinced it's in the middle which, incidentally, is his favorite place to sit. This child is so much different--and harder--than Dylan, in a way. Because with this boy, we have an influence on the outcome.

I've heard the thought stated a few times lately that we are not raising kids, we are creating future adults--which scares the Hell outta me. I need to wrap my head around how to get my child through this massive gauntlet of potential processing or learning disabilities, ADHD, PDD, or whatever, to other other side--an adult who exploits his strengths, has developed strategies around his weaknesses, and is wildly happy. 


And for that, I remember that it's no place for the weary kind. Even though I still feel broken.

This Month

It occurred to me today that this month is going to rip my heart out.

It started yesterday--the first day of a month one year ago that was marked by memories of hard breathing, respiratory distress, two hospital visits, and scary days and nights at home in between. The month of final, irreversible decline. Every day that I drive downtown to work, I cry remembering those drives to the children's hospital one year earlier.

Yesterday, Colin reminded us of the void he feels.  He told God during his nightly prayer that he wishes he had another brother. As a parent, you want to do whatever it takes to remove any void, any pain in your child's heart  But how on Earth are two forty-something, sad, heartbroken, screwed-up parents supposed to seek out another child? Not that I don't think about it...

Today, Colin told me he thought about Dylan's memorial and got sad.

So that's the first two days of October. 29 more to go. 

For now, I've committed to writing something--no matter how small or poorly crafted--for every day in the last month of my littlest one's life. Seems like it's at least better than just crying.

Twinkles

This one's for Kim...

My story--the story of my little angel Dylan, that is--is not such an unusual one, and it comes in different forms, with different kinds of loved ones. 

It so happened more than three years ago that Kim had an unexpected conception--or, rather, a delivery.  An unplanned addition to her family.  And upon receiving this sweet little bundle of joy, she learned pretty quickly about the myriad health complications that would probably, at least statistically, shorten the life of this precious surprise. 

But her little one thrived.  The power of love and proper caring really does make an amazing difference in the life of one who would merely be written off as frail, sick, or merely a runt by the onlooker.  I imagine that, after an initial period of wondering what she had gotten herself into, Kim settled into parenting her charge, bolstered by every day that her new child showed happiness, comfort and love.  Kim did not worry "how long" she had with her sweet baby.  She kissed, stroked, loved, played with, protected.  And the joy that resulted was an unexpected, and quite significant, blessing--one that lasted three years with virtually no issues.

Over the summer however, Kim's little sweetie took a turn for the worse.  She started having heart failure and trouble breathing.  Medication helped her to be comfortable for awhile longer, but her sickness ultimately made her suffer, then took its toll.  Kim had to say goodbye to her on July 29.

I could tell Kim felt sheepish about being so scared and worried during Twinkles' bouts at the animal hospital, and for being so terribly sad after Twinkles passed.  Seeing as how she was a dog and all.  

But I can't express strongly enough how much my husband and I hurt for her.  I am pretty sure we knew exactly how she felt.  It doesn't matter whether it's a child, parent, sibling or pet. When your love carries someone that you love farther in life than they were supposed to go, and you experience such incredible joy along the way, it blesses you beyond your wildest imagination.  And the experience refines you with its overwhelming swells of love and pain.

Rest In Peace, Twinkles.  Give Dylan a nudge with your cold little nose.  I hope he pets your soft fur so you both get to feel wonderful.