Songs

Since Dylan's been diagnosed, I have been struck by certain songs I hear on movies, TV and such.  They stop me in my tracks, usually bringing tears to my face, because of lyrics that hit home about the road we're on with Dylan. There's some odd comfort in the fact that I am never seeking these out--that I'm just caught unaware in what was otherwise a moment of escape and enjoyment from a TV show or film. Odd, I know. But perhaps it just keeps me from being too numb.

Last night I was watching a few minutes of the film "Crazy Heart" while I was giving Dylan his Pulmicort nebulizer treatment. The movie is pretty good, and I've always loved the music. Neither the story line of the movie or the song itself has anything to do with our situation. But these four lines in the chorus of the film's main song, "The Weary Kind," made my face burn with tears.

This ain't no place for the weary kind
This ain't no place to lose your mind
This ain't no place to fall behind
Pick up your crazy heart and give it one more try

I feel like that when I've had two doctors' appointments and two PT/OT appointments in one week, had to discuss his eating, movement, breathing, and the disease progression with too many people in a short amount of time. I feel like this when I am juggling an hour-long conference call, Colin school pickup and feedings all in a two-hour period and I realize I haven't just hugged him or made him smile in that time. I feel like this when I look at pictures from just a few short months ago, where he's holding up his own head in the high chair or moving his arms better. I feel this way when I try unsuccessfully to get him to click a switch toy with his tiny fingers.

It's an anthem for not breaking down.

Songs like this one do as good or better a job of describing how I'm coping sometimes--a fact that the songwriters would probably feel very special about, and should--whether or not they'd ever imagined my interpretation.  This and a couple of other songs I'll write about here are now part of the tapestry of our story. 

You can hear this song here performed by one of its writers, Ryan Bingham, if you're so inclined.

Letter to my son

I love you, Dylan, for your big, gummy smile, sweet babbles and raspberry noises when I come in every morning to unhook your feeding tube and take you out of your crib for the day.

I love you for letting me squeeze, stretch and tickle your chubby legs and feet.  I love you for tolerating my clumsiness with your little, not-so-chubby arms and floppy head when I pick you up.

I love you for loving Yo Gabba Gabba, Franklin and whatever else your big brother wants to watch.
I love you for crabbing at him when he gets in front of the TV or when your show is over.

I love you for your fingernails and sweet, wavy blond hair, both of which grow so fast!  It amazes me how a child who can't swallow or move his limbs very well can be so healthy in places.

I love you for squeezing my finger as hard as you can, in lieu of being able to hug my neck.

I love you for charming everyone who meets you with your beautiful blue eyes, which you got from your Grandpa Kenny. You manage to drop your chin just enough and peer upward sweetly, and you've got 'em in the palm of your little hands. You've got me there, too.

I love you for being so content even though your condition makes you sweaty and warm, some days so badly the hair is wet on the back of your head.  I love you for babbling with glee when you get to feel cool, fresh air on your body or the warm water of your bath.

I love you for being so relaxed and comfortable in the bath that you poop and make me change out the water.

I love you for sleeping through your nightttime tube feeding, even through the hooking up.  You didn't even awaken when your Grandma Zona and I were so worried we held my iPhone flashlight over you to see if your tube was in place and if the food was flowing through.

I love you for letting Colin clumsily kiss your face and hug you every night, sometimes hitting your tube spot by accident. 

I love how you have made Colin a sweet, tender big brother.

I love you for not being cross when I have bad days where I can't bring myself to exercise you or play with you as much as I should--for starting your cartoons over so that I can get one more work email out, or one more call to a doctor or the insurance company, one more bill paid. Or even just to cry in the next room because it's a particularly sad day and I don't want you to see.

I love when you sneeze and smile afterward because it tickles your nose.

I love that you are so good for the ladies in the chruch nursery, so that your dad and I get much needed worship and spiritual guidance.    

I love you for laughing when you see the baboon on the "Peekaboo Wild" iPad game. 

I love you for the way that this terrible disease has reordered our lives for the better.  I love that you and I can pick up Colin from school, that I can now start dinner earlier and help him with homework before dark.  I love that because of you, I can be a better parent to Colin than I was before.  I love that I am the one to take care of you, that I can represent your best interests to health care providers, that I can invent new games and ways to play with you, even that I can clean the house with my own hands to assure that you are in a clean and safe environment.  These things are by far my most important job--the hardest, most rewarding and most life-changing thing I have ever done or will ever do.

I love you for every day that you are with us, for every motor neuron in your body that hangs on and for every one that doesn't, for every good day and every bad day, for every tear I shed, and for every smile you give that takes my tears away. I am honored that I am the one who gets to take care of you, stroke your hair, make you laugh, and love you for as long as God has allowed you to be with us.

I love you for the awesome gift that you are to all of us.


   

She Nailed It

It's been awhile since I've blogged, clearly--and I have about five different drafts that I need to flesh out and finish.  But, for now, I wanted to share a great story that a friend sent me by the mother of a boy with Tay Sach's disease.  It is dead on, and worth reading.  Please enjoy. 

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/10/16/opinion/sunday/notes-from-a-dragon-mom.html