Especially Olympic

You hold your son's hand in your left one and the sled rope in your right as you climb up hill, and you find yourself thinking about the days when you longed for nothing else than to walk hand in hand with your son.

He walks without his canes, through the snow on a steep incline, and you wonder where his gold medal lies.

They said he may never walk.

May never talk.

And yet you often long for silence when he assaults you with questions that stretch your brain as he dissects the smallest of details.

Mom, when we went to Florida did we fly into the C termnal or the B? Mom, Mom, how many escalotor are in the Orlando airport? Mom, Mom, Mom, what was our baagage claim number?

You want to scream sometimes, but you don't.

Where is your medal?

And it may not sound especially Olympic, but you stand vigil at every social event, never knowing when your son will turn from a crowd charmer to a screaming hyena hell-bent on some illogical vendetta. You calmly remove him from the room when all you really want to do is run away yourself, to a place where children are always cute and no-one stares wide-eyed at your screaming son.

Where is your podium?

During a day of errands with your first child, a stranger in line hands him two dollars. "Put this in your piggy bank," she says with a smile, and you're not sure how you feel about her charitable act, but his face tells you to accept the gift.

You see no pity in her eyes, only joy.

Who is singing her anthem?

A man approaches you as you leave Middle Way Cafe and says, "I use to be like him. Wore braces. Had a hard time walking. Had to work real hard."

"And look at you now."

"Yeah, it comes with time. Just like Forrest Gump, ya know."

And you do. You recall the scene often--run Forrest run--when the braces fall to the dirt and the legs take over, one step and then another, strong and sure.

And you want to spend more time talking to this Native man but Elias walks on, swinging his canes, dragging his right foot, asking you the name of each store you pass.

So you follow your son as you have since the beginning, since your water broke at 24 weeks and you sat in the passenger seat of the Subaru, feeling him drop, unable to control his decent, forced to let go, as your husband stared ahead at the barren road, foot down, hands gripped.

Where are the people throwing flower bouquets to these brave men?

Or to the man you spoke with in Seward, a friend of a friend, soft in the eyes, who mentioned a fiance' earlier in conversation and when you asked him about her, he responded, "Oh, she passed away in 2009."

And you know in that instant why you felt connected to this young man the first time you met. You have both been ripped opened by the claws of grief and chosen not to stitch your heart closed, but to remain exposed to all that hurts in this world.

And to all the tiny moments that create flickers of joy.

Like sledding down a steep Seward driveway, your arms around your son, snow in your face, both half-blind, laughing as you slide, without the roar of the crowd to carry you on, only your two hearts beating.

 

Comments

[Kate]

Loved it. Most likely to inspire. Best at tear jerking :)

[Alison]

Simply the best….

[fleming]

I'd give you a gold medal. Just do the podium moment on a kitchen chair anyway. Sometimes pretending with your kids can be enough.

[Wendy]

That was absolutely lovely. Thank you.

[Ivy]

such a beautiful post! thank you!

[Greta]

Love it! Those few moments, arms wrapped around ones still smaller, legs clinging and steering, laughing, hooting. Pure happiness. It lingers, walking back up the hill. Those moments are but a drop in the daily grind bucket, yet they rescue me when I want to give up.

[Noel Dennehy]

That was beautifully written and so enjoyed- you definitely got the GOLD!

[Kate]

I was talking about you to another mom who is frustrated with her IEP, telling her about the beautiful story (that I couldnt find) about Elias pointing.

I am so glad I found you again. Spent the night reading what I missed.

Your children are so beautiful.

[Christy]

Thanks all for your kind comments. I have the best readers:)

Good to hear from you again Kate! The story of Elias pointing is now unfortunately owned by Parents.com and so missing from my blog. They retained ownership of my two years of writing for them despite my attempts to retain rights.