Rabbit Holes and Carnival Rides

I'm in the midst of letting my mind go down rabbit holes, giving in to my imagination, trying to grasp that elusive nugget of truth I feel I'm on the cusp of getting.

All the while, I have an ear open, anticipating a cry-out from my medically complex child.

At the very moment I become aware that I'm listening for him, the rabbit hole caves in on itself, the potential revelation buried.

This can be a source of frustration and resentment if I'm not careful. I envy the rabbit hole chasers that don't have any distractions.

**********

He's gagging, trying to swallow; his eyes water, his nose runs. As he coughs, his body convulses into full spasms. He's gasping for air, yet at the same time inhaling and aspirating fluids into his lungs.

I am moving as quickly and calmly as I can, trying to save him once again from drowning in his own secretions, acutely aware that I might bridge the gap between life and death.

This is our ritual every morning when he is sick or if it's allergy season. This week it happens to be allergy season. He wakes with a stuffy nose full of snot and post nasal drip. He tries to swallow the thick goo like any of us would, but finds his body doesn't know how. So he continues to try until he is choking and coughing uncontrollably. He fights for his life while I suction, give nasal drops to thin things, and mop up the occasional gag turned vomit.

We are finally done.

He's exhausted. I'm exhausted.

He's smiling. I'm questioning our entire existence.

**********

I'm reading angry, hate filled tweets and comments. Not directed at me. I still have too much fear to dip my toe into that raging rapid. 

But I get immersed in what others write. People with many followers. People with influence and authority on both sides and from different groups. People with no followers and just an opinion.

There is so much despair. And anger. And fear. And despair again.

So many theories. So many accusations. So many excuses.

So many offended. So many offending.

So much obvious injustice. So much manufactured injustice. 

So much blame.

Usually a little truth mixed with fiction on all sides with no way to truly discern at a glance what to believe.

As an empath, I probably shouldn't even have an account. It can be too much. Yet, the draw is there of wanting to know, a dangerous precipice for those like me with a penchant for the melancholy.

**********

When my oldest was little, I took him to the local carnival. I convinced him to ride a rotating, spinning, spider-looking ride. We were the only ones on it. We were spinning and spinning. I watched my son turn green. I felt green.

I yelled and waved at the operator to make it stop. I was sure one of us would puke. He ignored us. We were forced to finish to the end.

I feel like I'm on that ride again.

*********

I'm jumping to my feet from where I sit near his day bed. He's seizing and one arm is repeatedly hitting the bed rail. I put my arm between his arm and the rail. He hits my arm instead. 

He's wild eyed and his breath is ragged. His heart beats rapidly against my hand when I put it on his chest. I speak to him calmly as he's obviously in distress.

As the seizure retreats, I hug him and ask him if he's ok. His non-verbal answer is to try to push me out of the way, looking past me to see his iPad video. 

"I'm so sorry," I whisper to him helplessly.

Image by David Mark from Pixabay 

To Jonathan: On Your Graduation From High School

I was hoping to write you a note like I did for your brother on his day of high school graduation, however, because of this weird coronavirus thing, you haven't actually had a graduation day yet.

Instead, your senior year has sort of petered out into nothingness beginning mid-March. All of your senior activities came to an abrupt halt including your track season, prom, awards banquets, senior class traditions and parties, and, of course, graduation.

Yet, while I secretly (or maybe not so secretly) cried tears of disappointment for you (and me - I wanted brag pictures and memories, dang it!), you took it in stride, finished your assignments and finals online, hung out with friends virtually through Xbox and Snapchat, and spent your Friday nights watching movies with your parents and brother.

You took your last final a couple weeks ago, searched the web that day, and started applying for summer jobs. You got a request for an interview within hours of applying, arranged to see your closest friends that Friday, packed your bags over the weekend, and left town the following Monday. By Wednesday you had interviewed, and on Thursday you worked your first full day.

It was so you.

You have always been impatient and competitive, somehow immersing yourself fully in the moment and giving 110% while simultaneously pressing forward towards the next big thing on the horizon.

You entered this world screaming (er - passionate), ready to be known. Your fuzzy duckling, blond hair sticking straight up, announcing what was to come.

You've heard me tell the stories about how I wasn't sure I liked you the first 4 years of your life. You were loud and demanding. You yearned to be understood and heard before you mastered communication.

You scared me, and I didn't know how to parent someone like you. I read all the strong-willed child books, researched all the potential diet issues, talked to all the parents and teachers, and tried all the calming therapies. Until three things seemed to happen.

You lucked out having a preschool teacher with great patience whom we dubbed "the Jonathan whisperer". Your dad researched and started giving you a kid's version of fish oil. And most importantly probably, you learned to use your words.

So around 4 years old, somehow in the midst of these three things, your ship righted and you became, while still very passionate, someone also loving, really fun, and easy to like. And when I say you gave 110% it's because when you were dressed like a superhero, you BECAME the superhero. When you dressed like a cowboy, you WERE the cowboy. You were always all-in.

I remember in a bedtime prayer, you thanked God that you learned to read. You exclaimed it had changed your life. You said now you didn't have to ask your brother to read the text parts on your Xbox games. You gloried in small steps on the road to independence even back then.

Your elementary school years passed me by in a blur. Maybe because you spent most of them with a small group of best friends either in our basement or at their house. I've always felt guilty having asked you to move 1200 miles away on behalf of your little brother. You missed out on all those years of middle school and high school with them. Yet how serendipitous, that you will now attend college and play on the same football team with these exact same boys.

Perhaps having a medically complex little brother and moving across the country after 6th grade prepared you to take change in stride. You made the best of your time in middle and high school even though you had to make all new friends and prove yourself to all new people. You didn't let fear or any perceived disadvantages stop you. You've pressed on to overcome many frustrations and disappointments throughout the years. You've learned to adapt and adjust. You've become brave, always ready to take on the next hard thing.

You've always striven to be your best, both academically and in athletics. And while you claimed not to like classes and school, you did the work anyway and put in the effort to get the grades. You just can't do something half way.

Your love of playing football began with front yard games with your dad and brother, intense playground games with your classmates, and competitive club games in middle school. You didn't let your size hold you back or the words of some unbelievers. You fought and demanded a place on the team through determination and dedication. You worked hard. You earned the right to play.

You are an amazing person, and someone I can admire. Your inherited boisterous laughter makes my heart soar while your moments of sorrow and frustration have broken it into a million pieces. I love that you have been willing to confide in us when things have been tough. I love that you are free with hugs even when I'm not. I love that you LOVE your family.

It's a weird feeling being a parent with a child like you on the cusp of adulthood. I hope we've given you all the tools to survive without us, yet I DON'T WANT YOU TO BE ABLE TO SURVIVE WITHOUT US. My joy at your potential is mixed with lamenting the past; my excitement for your future is mixed with the sadness of letting go.

I know this isn't the end of our story. We still have many more chapters to write. But graduation from high school is just one of those chapter endings that's apparently going to fill my throat with a tearful tightness.


I loved you first,

Your Annoyingly-Sappy Mom